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Wveteibe  toCCcgc  CCaeeice 

THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN 

AND 
SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

BY 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


EDITED  WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES  BY 

THOMAS  H.  DICKINSON 

Editor,  Chief  Contemporary  DrairuUists 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON      NEW  YORK      CHICAGO      SAN  FRANCISCO 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


^c  iiatbcrfiilie  |3rrg« 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


VBV-      ' 


INTRODUCTION 

Goldsmith's  Life,  Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  into 
a  home  of  genteel  poverty  at  Pallasmore,  in  County 
Longfonl,  Ireland,  November  10,  1728.  His  father, 
the  Reverend  Charles  Goldsmith,  held  livings  succes- 
sively at  Pallasmore  and  at  Lissoy  in  Westmeath,  and 
it  was  in  the  schools  of  the  surrounding  hamlets  that 
Oliver  Goldsmith  received  his  first  instruction.  He 
passed  from  the  lax  tuition  of  his  masters  to  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  and  took  his  Bachelor  of  Arts  degree 
February  27,  1749,  without  having  distinguished  him- 
self in  any  way  except  as  an  independent  and  rather 
irregular  student. 

The  Reverend  Charles  Goldsmith  died  during  his 
son's  college  days.  In  1753  Oliver  Goldsmith  left 
the  home  of  his  widowed  mother  for  the  last  time,  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  the  world.  Thenceforward  we  have 
legends  of  him  in  prison  at  Newcastle,  studying  medi- 
cine at  Louvain,  playing  the  flute  in  Switzerland  and 
in  Italy,  and  conversing  with  Voltaire  and  Diderot  in 
Paris.  His  talents  matured  slowly;  at  twenty -three 
he  was  projecting  a  new  life  in  the  new  world;  at 
twenty-eight  he  was  undei--master  in  the  school  of  Dr. 
Milner  at  Peckham ;  at  twenty-nine  he  was  at  last  defi- 
nitely enlisted  in  the  struggle  for  bread  in  the  gar- 
rets of  eighteenth  century  Grub  Street.  Even  here  his 
advance  was  slow,  but  against  the  odds  of  poverty,  su- 


iv  INTRODUCTION 

perficial  education,  and  unpromising  personal  address, 
he  forged  forward  by  force  of  preeminent  artistic 
genius  to  a  place  in  the  circle  of  Johnson  and  Reynolds 
and  Burke.  Now  pinched  by  want,  now  made  rich  by 
a  bookseller's  stipend,  Goldsmith,  who  never  married, 
lived  the  fifteen  years  of  his  literary  success  among 
his  cronies  of  the  town,  and  at  the  age  of  forty-five, 
just  when  his  apprenticeship  was  over  and  he  could 
look  forward  to  greater  work  than  he  had  ever  done, 
he  fell  a  victim  to  a  disease  that  had  first  taken  hold 
of  him  as  a  result  of  his  early  poverty.  Goldsmith 
died  April  4,  1774. 

Goldsmith  as  a  Writer.  He  "left  scarcely  any 
kind  of  writing  untouched,  and  touched  nothing  that 
he  did  not  adorn,"  wrote  Johnson  for  Goldsmith's 
monument.  With  the  single  exception  of  tragedy, 
Goldsmith  undertook  at  one  time  or  another  through- 
out his  life  all  the  forms  of  composition  practiced  by 
his  contemporaries.  And  he  was  not  only  efficient  in 
all  of  these  fields ;  in  many  of  them  his  work  shows  a 
positive  advance  beyond  the  achievement  of  the  time. 
In  poetry  and  romance,  the  sincerity  of  Goldsmith's 
workmanship  showed  itself  in  simplicity  of  expression 
and  purity  and  tenderness  of  appeal  to  tlie  heart ;  in 
comedy,  it  showed  itself  in  a  discarding  of  the  comic 
types  of  his  day  for  a  more  genuine  presentment  of 
the  life  of  the  world  in  which  he  lived.  The  Citizen  of 
the  World  in  essay  ;  The  Traveller  and  The  Deserted 
Village  in  verse  ;  Tl/e  Vicar  of  Wahrjield  in  romance; 
The  Good-Natvred  Man  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer 
in  comedy  have  maintained  a  common  popularity  from 


INTRODUCTION  v 

Goldsmith's  day  to  this,  and  promise  to  live  as  long 
as  the  lanofuasre.  Even  Goldsmith's  hack-work  is  not 
all  unworthy  of  him,  and  though  in  Tlte  Present  State 
of  Polite  Learning  (his  first  book,  published  1759), 
The  History  of  Ungland  (1111'), ^nd  in  his  Animated 
Nature  (1774)  there  is  displayed  the  superticiality  of 
the  author's  learning,  these  works  are  saved  by  the 
purity  of  his  style  and.  the  general  sanity  of  his  judg- 
ments. 

Eighteenth  Century  Drama.  English  tragedy 
reached  its  height  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century 
in  the  great  plays  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  A  hundred 
years  later,  Congreve,  Farquhar,  and  Wycherly  domi- 
nated the  classic  age  of  English  comedy.  The  eight- 
eenth century  saw  the  decline  of  both  tragedy  and 
comedy.  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan  gave  comedy  re- 
newed vitality  for  the  decade  of  the  seventies,  but 
these  had  no  followers  who  were  worthy  of  their  in- 
heritance, and  the  nineteenth  century  brought  forward 
no  figure  who  can  stand  for  a  moment  beside  them. 

This  does  not  mean  that  the  stage  took  a  smaller 
part  in  the  life  of  eighteenth  century  England  than  it 
had  taken  before,  or  that  theaties  were  ever  better 
managed.  Colley  Gibber  and  Garrick  stand  without 
peers  as  managers,  and  the  latter  was  the  most  versa- 
tile actor  of  England,  if  not  of  modern  times.  Yet  the 
rise  of  the  manager  and  actor  saw  the  decline  of  the 
author.  Sheridan  in  The  School  for  /S'cawcZaZ,  his  first 
play  to  gain  real  success,  was  so  fortunate  as  to  act 
as  both  author  and  manager.  Garrick  was  arbitrary 
master  not  only  of  his  stage,  but  also  of  the  form  and 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

structure  of  aU  that  appeared  upon  it.  From  the  time 
of  Gibber  down  to  the  present,  English  plays  have  had 
to  do  with  the  theatre  rather  than  with  literature. 

The  decline  of  the  drama  after  Wycherly  may  be 
recounted  in  a  series  of  striking  phenomena.  Setting 
aside  the  growing  indecency  of  these  early  plays,  itself 
a  sign  of  change  in  literature  as  well  as  in  society, 
the  first  sign  of  dissolution  appeared  in  the  so-called 
sentimental  drama  of  Steele.  Than  Steele  there  has 
been  no  more  fascinating  figure  in  our  literature.  Yet 
his  four  plays.  The  Funeral^  The  Tender  Hushand, 
The  Lying  Lover ^  The  Conscious  Lovers.,  took  from 
drama  that  element  of  frank  vitality  that  is  necessary 
for  its  life.  Advised  by  Colley  Gibber  and  influenced 
by  Jeremy  Gollier,  Steele  applied  to  plays  the  rules  of 
propriety,  repose,  and  good  manners  that  served  him 
so  well  in  writing  his  sketches  and  his  essays.  The 
second  of  these  plays  was  "  damned  for  its  piety " 
after  a  few  appearances.  The  last  succeeded  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that,  as  Fielding's  Parson  Adams  says,  it 
contained  some  things  "  solemn  enough  for  a  sermon." 
It  is  a  long  way  frojn  the  sentimental  comedy  of 
Steele  to  that  sentimental  comedy  that  Goldsmith 
satirizes,  yet  the  later  form  was  a  logical  outgrowth 
of  the  earlier,  and  of  the  spirit  of  the  times. 

Not  upon  Steele  should  be  placed  the  burden  of  re- 
sponsibility for  the  decline  of  the  drama.  There  are 
signs  enough  that  show  us  that  deterioration  was  to  be 
expected.  In  the  first  place,  the  stage  had  become  less 
of  an  organ  of  public  opinion  than  it  had  been  at  the 
beginning  and  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Steele,  who  may  be  called  one  of  the  last  writers  of 


INTRODUCTION  yii 

the  comedy  of  manners,  was  also  one  of  the  first  of  the 
journalists.  Newspapers  and  periodical  magazines  now 
sprang  up  literally  by  the  hundreds  to  usurp  the  func- 
tions of  the  play  in  exposition  and  commentary  on  the 
life  of  the  times.  Before  the  middle  of  the  century, 
the  novel  sprang  into  new  popularity,  and  in  the  hands 
of  Fielding,  himself  a  dramatist,  rose  t«3  a  power  far 
beyond  that  of  contemporary  drama.  Partly  as  a  result 
of  this,  the  dramatists  ceased  to  go  to  nature  for  their 
characters,  but  used  over  and  over  again  the  stock 
types  of  the  theatre. 

Along  with  the  movement  for  greater  gentility,  there 
had  also  been  a  movement,  coming  from  France,  for 
greater  regularity  in  the  structure  of  plays.  The  old 
exuberant  passion  of  Shakespeare  was  displaced  by 
the  formalism  of  Voltaire.  Addison's  Cato  (1713) 
had  been  built  on  the  regular  lines  of  French  tragedy ; 
three  decades  later,  Johnson  essayed  classical  tragedy 
in  Irene  (1749).  The  success  of  the  first  was  more 
hurtful  to  English  drama  than  the  failure  of  the  latter. 
English  tragedy  has  never  recovered  from  the  debili- 
tating influence  of  French  "  regularity."  '■^  Barharossa 
I  have  read,  but  I  did  not  cry ;  at  a  modern  tragedy 
it  is  sufficient  not  to  laugh,"  writes  Gray  to  Thomas 
Wharton  in  1754  concerning  a  tragedy  by  Dr.  Brown, 
a  friend  of  Warburton. 

For  half  a  century,  to  use  the  phrase  of  Dr.  John- 
son, "  declamation  roared  whilst  passion  slept."  In 
1757,  Home,  the  author  of  Douglas^  was  hailed  as 
Shakespeare  redivivus,  but  his  was  but  a  spark  of  the 
divine  fire.  The  most  lamentable  sign  of  the  dramatic 
decadence  of  the  times  was  the  contempt  into  which 


vili  INTRODUCTION 

Shakespeare  had  fallen.  Garriek,  whose  onetier  it  was, 
as  Mrs.  Parsons  has  said,  to  fake,  not  emulate  Shake- 
speare, "  corrected  "  liomeo  and  Juliet,  made  a  pan- 
tomime of  The  311(1  suminer-NighV s  Z^reawz,  introduced 
topical  songs  into  A  Winter  s  Tale,  and  ended  with 
Hamlet  with  alterations. 

In  lighter  amusement,  the  eighteenth  century  had 
seen  the  introduction  of  opera  and  of  farce,  both  from 
France.  The  success  of  Gay's  Beggar  s  Opera  (1728) 
has  perhaps  never  been  duplicated.  It  was  followed  by 
a  flood  of  operas  of  all  kinds.  Indeed,  so  popular  did 
spectacular  and  lyrical  effects  become  that  no  play, 
serious  or  comic,  was  complete  without  songs.  Samuel 
Foote  (1720-77)  and  David  Garriek  (1716-79)  were 
the  most  successful  authors  of  that  comedy  of  inci- 
dent and  character  now  known  as  farce.  The  plays  of 
the  former,  Tlie  Minor,  The  Lyar,  The  Devil  ujjon 
Two  SticJcs,  are  almost  devoid  of  plot,  but  are  aston- 
ishingly keen  studies  of  eccentric  character.  The  sen- 
timental drama  introduced  by  Steele  was  continued  by 
Mrs.  Centlivre,  and  found  renewed  expression  in  the 
plays  of  Moore,  Murphy,  Whitehead,  Hugh  KeUy 
(^False  Delicacy^,  and  RicLard  Cumberland.  It  was 
to  combat  this  last  school  that  Goldsmith  essayed  a 
combination  of  the  farce  of  his  contemporar}^  Samuel 
Foote,  with  the  comedy  of  Farquhar  and  Congreve. 

Sentimental  Comedy.  Sentimental  comedy  may 
best  be  understood  by  following  the  campaign  against 
it.  Goldsmith  has  commonly  been  given  credit  for  this 
campaign.  It  is  true  that  as  the  strongest  figure  in  the 
movement  he  deserves  the  his-hest  honors  for  its  suc« 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

cess,  yet  many  voices  had  been  raised  against  senti- 
mental comedy  before  Goldsmith's.  Both  Steele  and 
Fielding  had  recognized  the  undramatic  character  of 
such  plays  in  the  phrases  quoted  in  the  last  section. 
"  Ours  is  all  sentiment,  blank-verse  and  virtue,"  wrote 
Colley  Gibber  in  the  Epilogue  to  Eugenia  (1752). 
And  Garrick  had  more  than  once  jocosely  referred  to 
the  theatre  as  a  church  (Prologues  to  Barharossa  and 
False  Delicacy').  Again,  in  A  Peep  Behind  the  Cur- 
tain  (1767)  Garrick  discusses  the  "pap  and  lop-loUy" 
of  our  present  writers,  and  makes  Sir  Macaroni  V utu 
say,  "  A  playhouse  in  England  is  to  me  as  dull  as  a 
church  and  fit  only  to  sleep  in."  Samuel  Foote's  plays 
hail  always  been  as  far  as  ])ossible  from  the  sentimental 
order.  On  February  15,  1773,  before  the  production 
of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  Foote  had  brought  out  at 
the  Haymarket  The  Handsome  Housemaid,  or  Piety 
in  Pattens,  "  how  a  maiden  of  low  degree,  by  the  mere 
effects  of  morality  and  virtue,  raised  herself  to  riches 
and  honors."  This  was  a  burlesque  entertainment  es- 
pecially directed  against  sentimental  drama,  and  hailed 
later  as  a  "  keen  satire  on  the  drowsy  spirit  of  our 
modern  comedies." 

Goldsmith's  Theories  of  Dramatic  Art.  In  spite 
of  the  fact  that  isolated  pens  had  been  turned  against 
the  follies  of  the  sentimental  school  of  playwriting,  it 
was  not  until  Goldsmith  formulated  the  attack  through 
his  criticism  and  followed  it  up  in  his  plays  that  any- 
thing was  accomplished.  Goldsmith's  written  princi- 
ples of  dramatic  construction  may  be  found  in  occa- 
sional references  to  the  drama  in  his   The  Present 


^  INTRODUCTION 

State  of  Polite  Learning  and  The  Vicar  of  Wake' 
iield,  in  the  essay  on  The  Strolling  Player  in  The 
Citizen  of  the  World,  iu  A  Comparison  between 
Laughing  and  Sentimental  Comedy,  contributed  to 
tlie  "  Westminster  Magazine  "  in  1772,  in  the  Preface 
to  The  Good-Natured  Man,  and  in  the  Dedication  to 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  Goldsmith's  bent  was  not 
toward  tragedy,  and  in  comedy  was  all  away  from  the 
comic  types  of  the  times  and  toward  the  writers  of 
the  age  of  Farquhar  and  Congreve.  Discarding  the 
well-known  theatrical  types  of  his  contemporaries,  he 
quite  consistently  went  to  nature  for  his  models  of  men 
and  women.  All  Goldsmith  added  to  nature  was  the 
piquant  sauce  of  his  own  jesting  spirit.  To  "  exagger- 
ate the  features  of  folly  to  render  it  more  thoroughly 
ridiculous,"  was  his  principle  of  comic  satire.  In  this 
he  was  more  like  Farquhar  than  like  Congreve  or 
Steele,  having  little  of  Congreve's  brilliancy,  and  no- 
thing of  the  latter  author's  finely  tempered  humor. 

Of  course,  Goldsmith's  practice  of  his  principles 
aroused  immediately  accusations  of  vulgarity  and  irrev- 
erence. Against  these  charges  Goldsmith  had  long 
before  prepared  his  answer.  "  Does  the  poet  paint 
the  absurdities  of  the  vulgar,  then  he  is  low:  does  he 
exaggerate  the  features  of  folly  to  render  it  more 
thoroughly  ridiculous,  he  is  then  very  low,"  he  writes 
in  The  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning.  And  in 
his  dedication  to  Johnson  he  contends,  "  The  greatest 
wit  may  be  found  in  a  character,  without  impairing 
the  most  unaffected  piety."  Again,  he  ridicules  tho 
"good,  instructive,  moral  sermons,"  the  modern  tra- 
gedies, and  defends  his  position  by  saying,  "  All  the 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

other  comic  writers  of  antiquity  aim  only  at  rendering 
folly  or  vice  ridiculous,  but  never  exalt  their  charac- 
ters into  buskin 'd  pomp  or  make  what  Voltaire  hu- 
morously calls  a  tradesman's  tragedy  "  (yl  Compari- 
son between  Laughing  and  Sentimental  Comedy^. 
Against  the  latter  remark  Cumberland,  the  last  of  the 
sentimentalists,  came  forth  with  a  strong  rejoinder 
prefacing  his  next  comedy,  The  Choleric  Man  (I'^lb^. 

The  Good-Natured  Man.  This  play  was  written  in 
the  years  1766-67.  First  offered  to  Garrick,  the  all- 
powerful  manager  of  Drury  Lane,  it  was  by  him  held 
until  the  patience  of  the  author  was  exhausted.  An- 
gered by  the  suggestion  that  he  should  modify  the 
play  in  some  essential  respects,  particularly  in  the 
treatment  of  the  character  of  Lofty,  Goldsmith  with- 
drew the  manuscript  and  offered  it  to  George  Colman, 
who  had  lately  become  one  of  the  patentees  of  Covent 
Garden  Theatre.  The  piece  was  accepted  by  Colman, 
and  the  date  of  production  was  finally  set  at  January 
29,  1768.  Whatever  chances  of  success  anew  form  of 
play  possessed  were  discounted  by  the  lack  of  sympa- 
thy of  the  majority  of  the  actors,  and  especially  by 
the  appearance  in  Garrick's  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  six 
nights  before  Goldsmith's  play,  of  an  unmixed  senti- 
mental comedy  by  Hugh  Kelly  entitled  False  Deli- 
cacy. This  play  was  received  with  great  applause,  and 
became  one  of  the  most  popular  plays  of  a  decade. 
When  TJie  Good-Natured  Man  finally  appeared  it 
was  unable  to  compete  with  its  sentimental  rival,  and 
its  success  was  merely  nominal.  The  work  of  Shuter 
as  Croaker,  and  Woodward  as  Lofty,  was  highly  sat 


zii  INTRODUCTION 

isf actoiy,  but  the  play  was  witlidrawn  after  nine  nights 
Goldsmith,  however,  made  some  <£500  out  of  the  stage 
production  and  the  sale  of  the  copyright. 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  Like  experiences  accom- 
panied the  production  of  Goldsmith's  second  play. 
Finished  in  1771,  this  piece  remained  in  the  hands  of 
Colman  until  the  needy  author  was  forced  to  humble 
remonstrance.  Finally,  by  the  influence  of  Johnson, 
who  practically  compelled  the  acceptance  of  the  play, 
a  day  was  set  for  its  production.  Meanwhile  senti- 
mental comedy  liad  received  setbacks  in  the  failure  of 
Kelly's  second  play,  A  Word  to  the  Wise  (1770),  and 
in  tlie  increasing  ridicule  of  the  writers  of  prologues 
and  critiques.  Though  Colman  and  his  actors  were 
again  despondent,  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  won  an  un- 
qualified success  on  its  first  production,  March  15, 
1773.  It  remains  to  this  day  one  of  the  most  popular 
stock  comedies  on  the  English  stage. 

Contemporary  Opinions  of  the  Plays.  Posterity 
has  had  no  discordant  voice  in  the  chorus  of  appro- 
bation given  to  Goldsmith's  two  comedies.  And  the 
first  has  been  almost  as  highly  favored  as  the  second. 
While  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  excels  in  wit  and  farci- 
cal incident,  the  earlier  play,  but  little  behind  in  ori- 
ginality in  characterization,  is  even  better  in  eplgran: 
and  sparkle  of  lines.  In  short,  the  first  is  less  "  low ' 
than  the  second.  Nor  were  contemporary  judgments, 
entirely  unfavorable  toward  these  plays.  Walpole,  who 
had  never  forgiven  Goldsmith  for  his  scarcely  veiled 
attack  on  his  father,    Sir  Robert  Walpole,  in    The 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

Present  State  of  Polite  Learning^  is  perhaps  the 
most  adversely  critical.  Yet  he  must  admit  the  merits 
of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  "  Dr.  Goldsmith  has 
written  a  comedy  —  no,  it  is  the  lowest  of  all  farces. 
It  is  not  the  subject  I  condemn,  though  very  vulgar, 
but  the  execution.  The  drift  tends  to  no  moral,  no 
edification  of  any  kind.  The  situations,  however,  are 
well  imagined,  and  make  one  laugh  in  spite  of  the 
grossness  of  the  dialogue,  the  forced  witticisms,  and 
total  improbability  of  the  whole  plan  and  conduct. 
But  what  disgusts  me  most  is,  that  though  the  charac- 
ters are  very  low,  and  aim  at  low  humor,  not  one  of 
them  says  a  sentence  that  is  natural  or  marks  any 
character  at  all." 

After  reading  such  a  criticism  as  this,  we  are  glad 
to  see  that  Samuel  Johnson,  Goldsmith's  fi-iend  and 
the  autocrat  of  the  age.,  was  far  more  favorable.  Of 
The  Good-Natured  M<ui  he  says,  "  It  is  the  best 
comedy  that  has  appeared  since  The  Provoked  Has- 
band  "/  and  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  "  I  know  of 
no  comedy  for  many  years  that  has  so  much  exhila- 
rated an  audience  ;  that  has  answered  so  much  the 
great  aim  of  comedy,  making  an  audience  merry." 

Strange  to  say,  it  was  the  scene  in  The  Good-Na- 
tured  Man  which  to  modern  readers  seems  most  ludi- 
crous, that  proved  offensive  to  the  finer  sensibilities  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  It  is  said  that  when  it  was 
decided  not  to  expunge  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs  (Act 
III)  from  The  Good-Natured  Man,  Colman  gave  up 
hope  for  the  piece.  And  this  scene  was  roundly  abused 
in  the  coffee-houses  and  the  critical  reviews.  Even 
Johnson  answered  Goldsmith's  question  concerning  a 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

protege  of  his,  "  Are  you  going  to  make  a  scholar  of 
him  ?  "  with  the  untender  satire,  "  Aye,  sir,  scholar 
enough  to  write  a  bailiff  scene  in  a  comedy."  Acced- 
ing to  the  popular  demand,  this  scene  was  retrenched 
in  the  second  and  succeeding  performances  of  the  play, 
but  at  the  instance  of  friends  "  who  think  in  a  partic- 
ular way  "  it  was  printed  in  the  published  edition. 
Five  years  later,  so  much  advance  had  been  made 
against  sentimental  comedy  that  "  by  particular  desire  " 
the  scene  of  the  bailiffs  was  returned  (May  3,  1773). 
To  this  day  this  scene  is  the  most  popular  in  the  play. 

Sources  of  Goldsmith's  Plays.  In  noting  the 
sources  of  Goldsmith's  plays  and  the  resemblances  be- 
tween them  and  other  plays,  French  and  English,  that 
were  accessible  to  the  author,  it  should  always  be  re- 
membered that  Goldsmith  was  an  original  genius,  and 
no  wealth  of  sources  could  provide  the  particular  works 
left  by  his  hands.  These  can  be  explained  only  by  the 
undoubted  genius  of  the  man.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
need  not  ignore  the  fact  that  Goldsmith  was  not  in 
the  strict  sense  an  innovator  in  any  line  of  composi- 
tion. No  English  writer  has  been  better  able  to  adapt 
the  work  of  other  men  to  the  purposes  of  his  own  art. 
That  Goldsmith  was  well  acquainted  with  French  and 
English  drama,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  and  just  as  he 
made  himself  free  to  take  incidents  from  his  life  and 
incorporate  them  in  fiction,  and  to  repeat  in  several 
different  works  a  sentence  that  pleased  him,  he  took 
his  play  subjects  where  he  found  them  and  moulded 
them  to  artistic  form  under  his  own  hand. 

The  title  The  Good-Natured  Man  is  derived  from 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

a  character  appearing  in  Goldsmith's  own  Life  of 
Richard  Nash  (1762).  Years  before,  Fielding  had 
written  a  comedy  with  this  very  title,  but  the  play  had 
not  been  performed  at  the  time  Goldsmith  wrote,  and 
he  was  probably  not  acquainted  with  it.  Comparison 
is  also  made  between  this  title  and  the  anonymous 
French  L'Ami  de  tout  le  Monde  (1673). 

The  character  of  the  hero  of  this  play  can  hardly 
be  said  to  be  patterned  after  Goldsmith  himself,  yet 
the  author  parallels  his  own  distinguishing  character- 
istics in  the  play,  and  there  is  a  note  of  personal  phi- 
losophy in  the  words,  "  There  are  some  faults  so  nearly 
allied  to  excellence,  that  we  can  scarce  weed  out  the 
vice  without  eradicating  the  virtue  "  (Act  I). 

Not  Honey  wood,  but  Croaker  and  Lofty  are  the  two 
most  successful  characters  in  this  comedy.  Goldsmith 
has  been  given  credit  for  originating  these  characters ; 
this  credit  we  cannot  grant  him.  Goldsmith  is  said  to 
have  admitted  to  Johnson  that  he  was  indebted  for  his 
Croaker  to  Suspirius  in  the  latter's  Rambler  (No.  59). 
Just  what  a  confession  of  this  kind  is  worth  when  given 
under  the  peculiar  duress  of  Ursa  Major  is  a  ques- 
tion. Striking  similarity  has  been  found  to  exist  be- 
tween three  of  the  characters  of  this  play,  Croaker, 
Leontine,  and  Olivia,  and  characters  in  the  French 
comedy,  Le  Grondeur,  by  Brueys  and  Palaprat  (1692). 
That  Goldsmith  knew  this  play  at  the  time  is  ex- 
tremely probable,  but  not  certain,  though  it  is  known 
that  five  years  later,  after  the  appearance  of  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer  he  adapted  a  portion  of  Sedley's 
version  of  it  for  Shuter  under  the  title  The  Grumbler. 

Lofty  is  by  no  means  a  new  figure  to  the  stage  of 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


Goldsmith's  time.  The  part  of  the  affected  fop  was 
in  fact  invented  by  Etheridge  in  his  Sir  Fopling  Flut- 
ter, and  the  part  appears  frequently  in  the  simper- 
ing "  macaronies "  of  the  eighteenth  century  stage 
in  Lord  Foppington  of  Gibber's  Careless  Husband^ 
in  the  Sir  Novelty  Fashion  of  Gibber's  Lovers  Last 
Shift,  in  the  Tom  Fashion  of  Vanbrugh's  Relapse, 
and  of  Lee's  Man  of  Quality,  and  in  Daffodil  of  The 
Male-  Coquette.  The  name  Sir  Thomas  Lofty  was  used 
as  recently  as  1764  in  Foote's  The  Patron.  It  may 
even  be  said  that  the  bragging  fop  is  the  eighteenth 
century  correspondent  to  the  Latin  and  Elizabethan 
braggart  captain  of  the  Miles  Gloriosns  type.  Another 
play  by  the  French  Brueys  provides  a  French  pro- 
totype of  Lofty.  This  is  U Imjiortant  de  la  Conr, 
produced  December  16,  1693,  and  dealing  with  a  cox- 
comb who  pretends  to  extraordinary  influence  at  court 
and  in  high  society. 

An  early  critic  of  the  play  (in  "  The  London  Maga- 
zine "  for  February,  1768)  compares  the  scene  with 
the  bailiffs  with  a  scene  in  Racine's  Les  Plaideurs  ; 
the  scene  in  which  Honeywood  attempts  alternately 
to  espouse  the  opinions  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Groaker  with 
a  scene  in  Moliere's  L^Avare;  Honeywood's  soliciting 
of  Miss  Ricliland  in  favor  of  Lofty  is  compared  with 
Z/e  Dissipateur  by  Dr.  Touche.  These  similarities  must 
not  be  pushed  too  far ;  neither  must  they  be  ignored. 
Other  similarities  are  no  less  striking.  Lofty's  detec- 
tion and  embarrassment  should  be  compared  with  a 
iike  scene  from  Fielding's  The  Wedding  Day.  The 
episode  of  Groaker's  son  Leontine  and  his  supposed 
sister  from  the  Continent  is  closely  paralleled  in  Ths 


INTRODUCTION  rvii 

Counterfeii  Bridegroom  (1677),  which  itself  was  prob- 
ably altered  by  Mrs.  Behn  from  Middleton's  jVo  Wit, 
No  Help^  Like  a  Womaiis. 

In  character,  plot,  and  treatment,  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer  is  in  every  way  more  original  than  The 
Good-Natured  Man.  The  title  of  the  play  was  para- 
phrased from  a  line  in  Dryden,  an  author  whose  works 
Goldsmith  knew  and  loved,  — 

But  kneels  to  conquer,  and  but  stoops  to  rise. 

This  really  excellent  title  was  not  chosen  until  the 
last  minute,  the  favorite  suggestion  up  to  this  time 
having  been  that  of  Reynolds,  "  The  Belle's  Strata- 
gem," by  adaptation  from  Farquhar's  The  Beaux* 
Stratagem  (1707).  This  title  was  later  taken  by  Mrs. 
Cowley  for  one  of  her  comedies,  which  has,  by  the  way^ 
some  points  of  similarity  with  Goldsmith's  play. 

It  is  probable  that  Goldsmith  was  not  willing  to 
accept  Reynolds's  suggestion  for  a  title  on  account 
of  the  already  striking  similarities  between  his  own 
play  and  that  of  Farquhar.  In  each  play,  the  leading 
male  parts  are  taken  by  two  young  men,  Marlow  and 
Hastings  corresponding  with  Aimwell  and  Archer, 
who  come  down  from  London  to  make  conquests  in 
the  country.  In  each  the  action  presumably  takes  place 
in  an  inn,  and  in  each  the  innkeeper  has  a  daughter 
to  whom  love  is  made  under  false  pretenses  ;  in  the 
earlier  play,  by  the  young  man's  stratagem,  in  Gold- 
smith's play,  by  the  stratagem  of  the  young  woman. 
In  each  a  valuable  casket  is  used  for  comic  effect. 
Finally,  Goldsmith  mentions  Cherry,  the  innkeeper's 
daughter,  and  the  play  itself  in  his  own  play.  These 


sviii  INTRODUCTION 

points  are  not  sufficient  to  show  indebtedness.  They 
do  reveal,  however,  a  plausible  reason  why  Goldsmith 
was  unwilling  to  call  his  play  "The  Belle's  Stratagem." 
There  are  words  in  the  Epilogue  first  printed  in  Jlis- 
cellaneous  Works  (1801)  which  seem  to  reveal  a 
particular  appropriateness  in  the  title  finally  chosen : 

No  high-life  scenes,  no  sentiment; — the  creature 
Still  stoops  among  the  low  to  copy  nature. 

These  words  seem  to  give  the  title  a  double  mean- 
ing, for  they  indicate  that  not  Miss  Hard  castle  alone 
was  stooping,  but  that  "  stoops  to  conquer  "  provides 
Goldsmith's  own  apology  for  the  particular  form  of 
drama  which  he  composed. 

Of  all  the  characters  in  this  play,  the  most  unconven- 
tional are  those  of  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  her  son  Tony. 
These  were  almost  completely  new  to  the  English  stage, 
the  only  known  prototypes  being  the  Widow  Black- 
acre  and  her  son  Jerry  of  Wycherly's  The  Plain 
Dealer ;  there  is  a  possibility  that  the  latter  widow 
was  an  imitation  of  the  Countess  in  Racine's  comedy 
Z/CS  Plaidevrs,  mentioned  above.  One  circumstance 
supports  the  theory  that  The  Plain  Dealer  was  in 
Goldsmith's  mind  when  writing  his  play,  and  that  is  a 
parallel  in  the  episode  of  the  theft  of  the  jewels.  Such 
a  theft  is  also  made  a  comedy  expedient  in  Mollcre'.* 
L'Avare.  Fitzgerald  in  A  New  History  of  the  English 
Stage  (vol.  ii)  tries  to  make  it  appear  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  their  son  Tony  are  patterned 
after  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aircastle  and  their  son  Toby  in 
Foote's  The  Cozeners.  As  a  matter  of  fact.  The  Coz- 
eners had  its  first  appearance  in  the  summer  of  1774 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

(9th  perfonxiance  August  3).  Foote  was  a  famous 
plagiary,  and  on  him  must  rest  the  imputation  of  the 
borrowing.  These  three  characters  remain  Goldsmith's 
most  original  contribution  to  the  gallery  of  the  stage. 
More  interesting  than  the  pursuit  of  literary  sources 
is  it  to  discover  that  two  episodes  of  She  Stoops  t€ 
Conquer  are  based  on  incidents  in  the  author's  own 
life.  These  are  the  mistaking  of  a  private  house  for 
an  inn,  which  is  an  essential  factor  of  the  plot,  and  is 
based  on  a  youthful  experience  of  Goldsmith's  while 
still  in  his  native  Ireland  ;  the  other  is  an  allusion  to 
the  tying  of  Mr.  Hardcastle's  wig  to  a  chair,  a  trick 
that  had  been  played  on  Goldsmith  while  he  was 
writing  the  play.  Both  these  incidents  are  told  in 
some  detail  in  Forster's  Life  of  Goldsmith. 

Goldsmith  as  a  Playwright.  The  merits  of  Gold- 
smith as  a  playwright  lie  close  to  the  surface,  and  are 
easily  discernible  by  a  sympathetic  reader.  They  are 
made  more  manifest  when  one  studies,  as  we  have 
done,  the  conditions  under  which  the  average  drama 
of  his  day  was  written.  In  the  larger  matters  of  struc- 
ture and  design,  hardly  an  adverse  criticism  can  be 
made  of  these  plays.  The  development  of  the  story  is 
steady,  unforced,  and  transparent  from  beginning  to 
end.  One  of  Goldsmith's  greatest  gifts  was  clearness 
of  perception  and  expression.  Whatever  his  opinion 
may  have  been  of  language  as  an  obscurer  of  thought, 
his  own  practice  was  to  make  language  richly  expres- 
sive. His  peculiar  theories  of  vis  comica  precluded 
the  treatment  in  his  plays  of  those  tenderer  and  more 
humane  characteristics  that  we  find  in  his  essays  and 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

poems.  He  who  limits  his  reading  to  Goldsmith's 
plays  sees  only  half  the  man.  But  within  the  limits  of 
the  plays,  Goldsmith  was  rigorously  consistent  with 
his  foreordained  principles.  His  art  of  the  stage  was 
something  more  than  a  return  from  stage  types  to 
nature ;  it  depended  upon  an  exaggeration  of  nature 
for  the  purposes  of  the  ludicrous.  From  these  prin- 
ciples grew  all  those  characteristics  for  which  Gold- 
smith's plays  were  early  condemned.  They  led  natu- 
rally to  farce  and  to  a  straining  of  the  verities.  So  the 
scene  of  the  bailiffs  and  Croaker's  letter  scene  in  TJiq 
Good-Natured  Man  must  be  judged  merely  as  they 
make  the  audience  merry ;  and  Tony's  journey  down 
Featherbed  Lane,  forty  miles  away  to  his  father's  back 
yard,  can  be  considered  true  only  in  Farce,  the  fact 
that  such  an  event  is  said  to  have  happened  not  serv- 
ing in  the  least  to  make  it  veracious. 

Though  far  ahead  of  the  comedy  of  his  time.  Gold- 
smith's comedy  does  not  reach  the  glories  of  the  comedy 
of  the  Restoration  age.  Only  once  again,  and  that  with 
the  diminished  lustre  of  a  Sheridan,  did  English  comedy 
show  anything  of  the  brilliancy,  wit,  epigram,  and  mar- 
velous balance  of  the  "  poets  of  the  last  age."  While 
Goldsmith's  second  play  gained  in  incident,  and  there- 
fore, from  the  modern  point  of  view,  in  acting  quality, it 
lost  greatly  in  polish,  repartee,  and  that  real  gentility 
that  marked  the  prime  of  English  as  well  as  of  French 
comedy.  In  short,  had  Goldsmith  lived  a  century 
earlier,  The  Good-Natured  Man  would  have  be<m 
hailed  as  a  better  play  than  its  successor.  As  it  oc- 
curred. The  Good-Natured  Man^  which  was  the  more 
decorous,  was  lost  amid  the  inanity  of  a  sentimental 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

drama  it  was  not  vigorous  enough  successfully  to  com- 
bat. She  Stoops  to  Conquer^  more  lusty  with  forces  of 
laughter,  effectively  demolished  the  old  comedy,  and 
assumed  an  abiding  place  on  the  English  stage. 

To  the  student  of  drama  it  seems  strange  that  there 
did  not  proceed  from  these  plays  of  Goldsmith  a  new 
school  of  dramatists  to  do  for  drama  what  the  roman- 
ticists were  to  do  for  poetry.  For  here  certainly  were 
the  clear  insight,  the  honest  judgment,  the  sympathy 
with  nature,  the  constructive  imagination,  that  are 
essential  to  great  literary  movements.  But  Goldsmith 
was  not  the  father  of  a  school.  It  was  his  lot  to  stand 
as  one  of  the  last  figures  in  an  outgoing  era,  rather 
than  as  a  prophet  of  the  new  age.  In  his  verse  there 
were  keen,  unmotived  strains  of  a  new  romantic  uplift 
Yet  he  accepted  without  question  the  formulas  of  the 
age  of  Johnson.  In  drama  he  was  an  isolated  reformer 
whose  task  was  destined  never  to  be  completed.  And 
so  it  chances  that  the  dramatic  movement  of  which  he 
was  a  part  must  be  considered  as  the  last  flowering 
of  a  literary  epoch  which  was  even  then  coming  to  a 
close.  Not  since  the  death  of  Congreve  had  the  promise 
for  comedy  been  brighter  than  in  1773.  But  Gold- 
smith died  before  he  could  write  another  play,  and 
Sheridan,  after  writing  two  comedies,  went  to  pieces, 
and  he  had  no  successor. 


THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN 


prefacp: 

Whex  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,  I  confess  I  was 
strongly  prepossessed  in  favor  of  the  poets  of  tlie  last  age,' 
and  strove  to  imitate  them.  The  term,  genteel  coviedij,  was 
then  unknown  amongst  us.  and  little  more  was  desired  by  an 
audience,  than  nature  and  immor,  in  whatever  walks  of  life 
they  were  most  conspicuous.  The  author  of  the  following 
scenes  never  imagined  that  more  would  he  expected  of  him, 
and  therefore  to  delineate  character  has  been  his  principal 
aim.  Those  who  know  anything  of  composition,  are  sensi- 
ble that,  in  pursuing  humor,  it  will  sometimes  lead  us  into 
the  recesses  of  the  mean  ;  I  was  even  tempted  to  look  for  it 
in  the  master  of  a  sponging-house  ; '^  hut  in  deference  to  the 
public  taste,  grown  of  late,  perhaps,  too  delicate,  the  scene  of 
the  bailiffs  was  retrenclied  in  the  representation.  In  defer- 
ence also  to  the  judgment  of  a  few  friends,  who  think  in  a 
particular  way,  the  scene  is  here  restored.  The  author  sub- 
mits it  to  the  reader  in  his  closet;  and  hopes  tlnit  too  much 
refinement  will  not  banish  humor  and  character  from  ours, 
as  it  has  already  done  from  the  French  theatie.  Indeed,  the 
French  comedy  is  now  become  so  very  elevated  and  senti- 
mental, that  it  has  not  only  banished  humor  and  Moliere 
from  the  stage,  but  it  has  banished  all  s])ectators  too. 

Upon  tlie  whole,  the  autlior  returns  his  thanks  to  the  pub- 
lic for  tlie  favorable  rece|)tion  which  tlie  Goocl-Natured  Man 
has  met  with;  and  to  Mr.  Culuian  *  in  particular,  for  his 
kindness  to  it.  It  may  not  also  be  improper  to  assure  any,  who 
shall  hereafter  write  for  tlie  theatre,  that  merit,  or  supposed 
merit,  will  ever  be  a  sufficient  passport  to  his  protection. 

1  poets  of  the  last  age  :  In  Letter  xl  of  The  Citizen  of  the 
World  GoliLsniith  states  the  gTonnds  of  his  [)refereiiee  for  the  "  poetr 
of  the  last  ag^e."    Here  "  poets  "  iiicliuljs  "'  draniiitists." 

-  sponging-house  :  A.  victualing'  house  where  prisoners  for  debt 
were  kept  penilliig-  settlement. 

"  to  Mr.  Colman  .  .  .  for  his  kindness  :  Here  Goldsmith  cap 
hardly  he  sincere,  as  it  is  well  known  he  felt  little  gratitude  to  Colman. 


PROLOGUE  * 

WRITTEN   BY   DR.   JOHNSON,   SPOKEN   BY   MR.    BENSLEY.2 

Press'd  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 

Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind  ; 

With  cool  submission  joins  the  laboring  train, 

And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain  : 

Our  anxious  bard,  without  complaint,  may  share 

This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care, 

Like  Caesar's  pilot,^  dignified  by  fate, 

Toss'd  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great; 

Distress'd  alike,  the  statesman  and  the  wit. 

When  one  a  borough  courts,  and  one  the  pit. 

The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame. 

Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same; 

disabled  both  to  combat,  or  to  fly, 

Must  hear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply. 

Uncheok'd,  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  their  rage, 

As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 

'  Prologue:  This  prologue,  which  reveals  unusual  melaiicholvj 
was  the  only  piece  of  Johnson's  work  given  to  tlie  public  in  17G8. 
As  first  printed  the  fifth  line  read  "  our  little  hard,"  hut  at  Gold- 
smith's request  these  words  were  changed.  Writers  of  prologues 
were  not  always  complimentary.  So  Garrick  refers  to  an  author's 
play  as  "his  poetic  brat."   (Prologue  to  Eugenia.) 

'  Mr.  Bensley:  Robert  Bensley  (1738-1817)  was  given  his 
first  engagement  by  Garrick  at  Drnry  Lane  in  17G5.  He  then 
went  over  to  Covent  Garden.  His  Lago  and  Malvolio  were  said 
to  be  very  good. 

'  Caesar's  pilot  :  The  reference  is  to  a  story  told  by  Plutarch 
of  Caesar's  voyage  across  the  Adriatic  before  making  battle  with 
Pompey. 


THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  3 

Th'  offended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale, 
For  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 

Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss, 
Till  that  glad  night  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 
"  This  day  the  powder'd  curls  and  golden  coat," 

Says  swelling  Crispin,^  "  begg'd  a  cobbler's  vote." 
"This  night,  our  wit,"  the  pert  ajDprentice  cries, 
"  Lies  at  my  feet  —  I  hiss  him,  -and  he  dies." 
The  great,  't  is  true,  can  charm  th'  electing  tribe ; 
The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 
Yet,  judged  by  those  whose  voices  ne'er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold  ; 
But,  confident  of  praise,  if  y^raise  be  due. 
Trusts  without  fear,  to  merit,  and  to  you. 

1  Crispin  ;  A  Christian  martyr  of  Rome  who  became  the 
patron  saint  of  shoemakers.  The  term  is  here  sjTionymous  with 
"  shoemaker." 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

MEN 

M.r.  Honeywood Mr.  Powell. 

Croaker Mr.  Sluiter. 

Loftif Mr.  Woodward 

Sir  William  Honeywood Mr.  Clarke. 

Leontine Mr.  Beiisley. 

Jarvis Mr.  Diuistall. 

Butler Mr.  Ciisliiiig. 

BaiUf Mr.  R.  Suiith. 

Dubardieu Mr.  Holtom. 

Postboy Mr.  Quick. 

WOMEN 

Misx  Ricnland Mrs.  Bulkley. 

Olivia Mrs.  Mattocks. 

Mrs.  Croaker Mrs.  Pitt. 

Garnet Mrs.  Green. 

Landlady     . Mis.  White^ 

Scene  —  Loudoa 


THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN 

ACT   THE   FIRST 
Scene,  An  apartment  in  young  honeywood's  piouse. 

Enter  Sir  William  Honeywood  and  Jarvis. 

Sir  William.  Good  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  for 
this  honest  bluntness.  Fidelity  like  yours  is  the  best 
excuse  for  every  freedom. 

Jarvis.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very 
angry,  too,  when  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinheriting  so 
good,  so  wortliy  a  young  gentleman  as  your  nephew, 
my  master.  All  the  world  loves  him.^ 

Sir  William.  Say  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the 
world  ;  that  is  his  fault. 

Jarvis.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more  dear 
to  him  than  you  are,  though  he  has  not  seen  you  since 
he  was  a  child. 

Sir  William.  What  signifies  this  affection  to  me, 
or  how  can  I  be  proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart  where 
every  sharper  and  coxcomb  find  an  easy  entrance  ? 

Jarviii.  I  grant  you  that  he  is  rather  too  good- 
natured  ;  that  he  's  too  much  every  man's  man  ;  that  he 
laughs  this  minute  with  one,  and  cries  the  next  with 
another ;  but  whose  instructions  may  he  thank  for  all 
this? 

Sir  William.   Not  mine,  sure?  My  letters  to  him 

1  All  the  world  loves  him :  In  Mr.  Biirchell's  acconnt  of 
the  character  of  Sir  William  Thoriihill  in  The  Vicar  of  Wake' 
Jield  (chap,  iii),  similar  sentiments  are  expressed. 


6  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN        [Act  I 

during  my  employment  in  Italy  taught  him  only  that 
philosophy  which  might  prevent,  not  defend,  his  errors. 

Jai'vis.  Faith,  begging  your  honor's  pardon,  I  'm 
sorry  they  taught  him  any  philosophy  at  all ;  it  has 
only  served  to  spoil  him.  This  same  philosophy  is  a 
good  horse  in  the  stable,  but  an  arrant  jade  on  a  jour- 
ney. For  my  own  part,  whenever  I  hear  him  mention 
the  name  on  't,  I  'm  always  sure  he  's  going  to  play  the 
fool. 

Sir  William.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his 
philosophy,  I  entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his  good  nature 
arises  rather  from  his  fears  of  offending  the  importu- 
nate, than  his  desire  of  making  the  deserving  happy. 

Jarvis.  What  it  rises  from,  I  don't  know.  But,  to 
be  sure,  everybody  has  it  that  asks  for  it. 

Sir  William.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I  have 
been  now  for  some  time  a  concealed  spectator  ^  of  his 
follies,  and  find  them  as  boundless  as  his  dissipation. 

Jarvis.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name  or 
other  for  them  all.  He  calls  his  extravagance  gener- 
osity ;  and  his  trusting  everybody,  universal  benevo- 
lence. It  was  but  last  week  he  went  security  for  a  fel- 
low whose  face  he  scarce  knew,  and  that  he  called  an 
act  of  exalted  mu  —  mu  — munificence  ;  ay,  that  was 
the  name  he  gave  it. 

Sir  William,  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last 
effort,  though  with  very  little  hopes  to  reclaim  him. 
That  very  fellow  has  just  absconded,  and  I  have  taken 
up  the  security.  Now,  my  intention  is  to  involve  him 
in  fictitious  distress,  before  he  has  plunged  himself 
into  real  calamity  ;  to  arrest  him  for  that  very  debt ;  ^ 

'  concealed  spectator:  Note  the  similarity  here  to  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  in  which  also  there  is  an  uncle  named  Sir 
William  who  secretly  watches  the  fortunes  of  his  family. 

'  arrest  him  for  .  .  .  debt :  Goldsmith   himself  bad  been 


Act  IJ        THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  7 

to  clap  an  officer  upon  him,  and  then  let  him  see  which 
of  his  friends  will  come  to  his  relief. 

Jarvis.  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  him  thor- 
oughly vexed,  every  groan  of  his  would  be  music  to 
me  ;  yet,  faith,  I  believe  it  impossible.  I  have  tried  to 
fret  him  myself  every  morning  these  three  years  ;  but 
instead  of  being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly  to  hear  me 
scold,  as  he  does  to  his  hair-dresser. 

Sir  William.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  how- 
ever, and  I  '11  go  this  instant  to  put  my  scheme  into 
execution  ;  and  I  don't  despair  of  succeeding,  as,  by 
your  means,  I  can  have  frequent  opportunities  of  being 
about  him,  without  being  known.  What  a  pity  it  is, 
Jarvis,  that  any  man's  good-will  to  others  should  pro- 
duce so  much  neglect  of  himself  as  to  require  correc- 
tion !  Yet  we  must  touch  his  weaknesses  with  a  deli- 
cate hand.  There  are  some  faults  so  neai'ly  allied  to 
excellence,  that  we  can  scarce  weed  out  the  vice  with- 
out eradicating  the  virtue.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood.  It  is  not  without  reason,  that  the  world  allows 
thee  to  be  the  best  of  men.  But  here  comes  his  hope- 
ful nephew  ;  the  strange,  good-natured,  foolish,  open- 
hearted  —  And  yet,  all  his  faults  are  such  that  one 
loves  him  still  the  better  for  them. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

HoHcywood.  Well,  Jarvis,  what  messages  from  my 
friends  this  mornins:  ? 

Jarvis.  You  have  no  friends. 

Honeywood .  Well ,  from  my  acquaintance  then  ? 

Jarvis.  (^Pidlinrj  out  hills.^  A  few  of  our  usual 
cards  of  compliment,  that 's  all.  This  bill  from  your 

arrested  for  debt  in  1764,  and  was  held  prisoner  in  bis  owu  bouse 
until  released  by  the  good  offices  of  Johnson. 


8  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN        [Act  I 

tailor ;  this  from  your  mercer ;  and  this  from  the 
little  bioker  in  Crooked-lane.^  He  says  he  has  been 
at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  back  the  money  you 
borrowed. 

Honeywood.  That  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  am  sure 
we  were  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  iu  getting  him  to 
lend  it. 

Jarvls.  He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeyioood.  Then  lie  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jarvis.  There  's  that  ten  guineas  you  were  sending 
to  the  poor  gentleman  and  his  children  in  the  Fleet. ^ 
I  believe  they  would  stop  his  mouth  for  a  while  at 
least. 

Honeywood.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their 
mouths  in  the  mean  time  ?  Must  I  be  cruel  because 
he  happens  to  be  importunate  ;  and,  to  relieve  his  ava- 
rice, leave  them  to  insupj^ortable  distress  ? 

Jarvis.  'Sdeath !  Sir,  the  question  now  is  how  to 
relieve  yourself;  yourself.  —  Haven't  I  reason  to  be 
out  of  my  senses,  when  I  see  things  going  at  sixes  and 
sevens  ? 

Iloneyvnood.  Whatever  reason  you  may  have  for 
being  out  of  your  senses,  I  hope  you  '11  allow  that  I  'm 
not  quite  unreasonable  for  continuing  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  You  are  tlie  only  man  alive  in  your  pre- 
sent situation  that  could  do  so.  Everything  upon  the 
waste!  There 's  Miss  EIchLind  and  her  fine  fortune 
gone  already,  and  upon  the  point  of  being  given  to 
your  rival. 

Honeywood.  I  'm  no  man's  rival. 

'  Crooked-lane  :  Cannon  Street;,  London  ;  a  street  of  small 
shops,  mentioned  also  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  (Act  II). 

^  the  Fleet  :  A  famous  Loiiflun  prison  dating  from  very  early 
times. 


Act  I]        THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  9 

Jarvis.  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disinherit 
you;  your  own  fortune  iihnost  spent;  and  notliing*  but 
pressing'  creditors,  false  friends,  and  a  pack  of  drunken 
servants  that  your  kindness  has  made  unlit  for  any 
other  family. 

Iloiicyinood.  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion  for 
being  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  Soh  !  What  will  you  have  done  with  him 
that  I  caught  stealing  your  plate  in  the  pantry?  \n 
the  fact ;  I  caught  him  in  the  fact. 

Iloiieijxaood.  In  the  fact  ?  If  so,  I  really  think  that 
we  should  pay  him  his  wages,  and  turn  him  off. 

Jarvis.  He  shall  be  turned  off  at  Tyburn,^  the  dog; 
we  '11  hang  him,  if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the  rest  of 
the  family, 

Honeywood.  No,  Jarvis;  it's  enough  that  we  have 
lost  what  he  has  stolen  ;  let  us  not  atld  to  it  the  loss 
of  a  fellow-creature  ! 

Jarvis.  Very  fine  !  well,  here  was  the  footman  just 
now,  to  complain  of  the  butler  ;  he  says  he  does  most 
work,  and  ousrht  to  have  most  waires. 

Honeyioood.  That 's  but  just ;  though  perhaps  here 
comes  the  butler  to  complain  of  the  footman. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  it 's  the  way  with  them  all,  from  the 
scullion  to  the  privy-counsellor.  If  they  have  a  bad 
master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  him  ;  if  they  have 
a  good  nujster,  they  kee[)  qiuirrelling  with  one  another. 

]£nler  Butler,  drunk. 

Butler.  Sir,  I  '11  not  stay  in  the  family  with  Jona- 
than ;  you  must  part  with  liim,  or  part  with  me,  that 's 
the  ex  —  ex  —  exposition  of  the  matter,  sir. 

'  turned  off  at  Tyburn  :  Tybiini  was  the  regular  place  of  ex- 
ecution near  London.  Hanging  was  in  these  days  the  not  unusual 
punisliMient  for  petty  crimes.  See  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  (chap, 
xv),  "  Don't  you  know,  now,  I  could  hang  you  all  for  this  ?  " 


10  THE  GOOD-NATURED   MAN        [Act  I 

Honeywood.  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But  what 's 
his  fault,  good  Philip  ? 

Butler.  Sir,  he 's  given  to  di-iuking,  sir,  and  I  shall 
have  my  morals  corrupted  by  keeping  such  company. 

Honeywood.  Ha !  ha !  he  has  such  a  diverting  way  — 

Jarvis.  Oh,  quite  amusing. 

Butler.  I  find  my  wine  's  a-going,  sir ;  and  liquors 
don't  go  without  mouths,  sir;  I  hate  a  drunkard,  sir ! 

Honeywood.  Well,  well,  Philip,  I  '11  hear  you  upon 
that  another  time  ;  so  go  to  bed  now. 

Jarvis.  To  bed  !  let  him  go  to  the  devil ! 

Butler.  Begging  your  honor's  pardon,  and  begging 
your  pardon,  master  Jarvis,  I  '11  not  go  to  bed,  nor  to 
the  devil  neither.  I  have  enough  to  do  to  mind  my 
cellar.  I  forgot,  your  honor,  Mr.  Croaker  is  below.  I 
came  on  purpose  to  tell  you. 

Honeywood.  Why  did  n't  you  show  him  up,  block- 
head? 

Butler.  Show  him  up,  sir  ?  With  all  my  heart,  sir. 
Up  or  down,  all 's  one  to  me.  [Exit. 

t/arvis.  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  that  family  in 
this  house  from  morning  till  night.  He  comes  on  the 
old  affair,  I  suppose.  The  match  between  his  son,  that's 
just  returned  from  Paris,  and  Miss  Richland,  the  young 
lady  he  's  guardian  to. 

Honeywood.  Perhaps  so.  Mr.  Croaker,  knowing  my 
friendship  for  the  young  lady,  has  got  it  into  his  head 
that  I  can  persuade  her  to  what  I  please. 

Jarvis.  Ah !  if  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as  well 
as  she  loves  you,  we  should  soon  see  a  marriage  that 
would  set  all  things  to  rights  again. 

Honeywood.  Love  me!  Sure,  Jar  vis,  you  dream.  No, 
no  ;  her  intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to  more  than 
friendshi^j  —  mere  friendship.    That  she  is  the  most 


Act  I]        THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  11 

lovely  woman  that  ever  warmed  the  human  heart  with 
desire,  I  own.  But  never  let  me  harbor  a  thought  of 
making  her  unhappy,  by  a  connection  with  one  so  un- 
worthy her  merits  as  I  am.  No,  Jar  vis,  it  shall  be  my 
study  to  serve  her,  even  in  spite  of  my  wishes ;  and  to 
secure  her  happiness,  though  it  destroys  my  own. 

Jarvis.  Was  ever  the  like !  I  want  patience. 

Honey  wood.  Besides,  Jarvis,  though  I  could  obtain 
Miss  Richland's  consent,  do  you  think  I  could  succeed 
with  her  guardian,  or  Mrs.  Croaker,  his  wife  ;  who, 
though  both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are  yet  a  little 
opposite  in  their  dispositions,  you  know. 

Jarvis.  Opposite  enough.  Heaven  knows!  the  very 
reverse  of  each  other;  she,  all  laugh  and  no  joke;  he, 
always  complaining  and  never  sorrowful ;  a  fretful, 
poor  soul,  that  has  a  new  distress  for  every  hour  in 
the  four-and-twenty  — 

Honeywood.  Hush,  hush,  he's  coming  up,  he'll 
hear  you. 

Jarvis.  One  whose  voice  is  a  passing  bell  ^  — 

Honeywood.  Well,  well ;  go,  do. 

Jarvis.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief ; 
a  coffin  and  cross-bones ;  a  bundle  of  rue ;  a  sprig  of 
deadly  nightshade  ;   a  —    {Honeywood^  stopj)ing  his 

mouth  at  last,  pushes  him  ojf.^  [Exit  Jarvis. 

Honeywood.  I  must  own,  my  old  monitor  is  not  en- 
tirely wrong.  There  is  something  in  my  friend  Croak- 
er's conversation  that  quite  depresses  me.  His  very 
mirth  is  an  antidote  to  all  gaiety,  and  his  appearance 
has  a  stronger  effect  on  my  spirits  than  an  undertaker's 
shop.  —  Mr.  Croaker,  this  is  such  a  satisfaction  — 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honeywood, 
*  a  paBsing  bell :  a  bell  tolliug  for  the  dying. 


12  THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN        [Act  I 

and  many  of  them.  How  is  this!  You  look  most  shock- 
ingly to-day,  my  dear  friend.  I  hope  this  weather  does 
not  affect  your  spirits.  To  be  sure,  if  this  weather  con- 
tinues—  I  say  nothing.  But  God  send  we  be  all  better 
this  day  three  months  ! 

Uoneywood.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish,  though, 
I  own,  not  in  your  apprehensions. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  what 
weather  we  have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin  like  ours? 
Taxes  rising  and  trade  falling.  Money  flying  out  of 
the  kingdom,  and  Jesuits  *  swarming  into  it.  I  know 
at  this  time  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty-seven 
Jesuits  between  Charing  Cross  ^  and  Temple  Bar.^ 

Honeywood.  The  Jesuits  will  scarce  pervert  you  or 
me,  I  should  hoj^e. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  whom 
they  pervert  in  a  country  that  has  scarce  any  religion 
to  lose?  I'm  only  afraid  for  our  wives  and  daughters. 

Honeyivood.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the  ladies, 
I  assure  you. 

*  Jesuits  :  The  Jesuits  were  the  bogies  of  the  eigliteenth  cen- 
tury. "  Have  I  been  all  tliis  time  entertaining  a  Jesuit  in  parson's 
clothes  !  "  says  a  character  in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  (chap.  xix). 
At  this  time  the  Jesuits  offered  no  problem  in  politics  nearer 
than  in  Japan. 

'  Charing  Cross  :  A  monument  built  in  imitation  of  the  cross 
of  stone  erected,  1291-94,  at  what  is  now  the  junction  of  the 
Strand,  Whitehall,  and  Cocksiiur  Street,  to  Eleanor,  Queen  of 
Edward  I,  marking  the  last  stage  of  the  funeral  procession  to 
Westminster  Abbey.  The  plot  of  ground  surrounding  the  cross 
is  now  pretty  well  absorbed  in  Trafalgar  Square.  To-day  it  is 
the  point  of  the  Charing  Cross  Eailway  Station.  "  I  think  the  fidl 
tide  of  human  existence  is  at  Charing  Cross."  Johnson.  (Hill's 
Boswell,  vol.  ii,  p.  3S6.) 

'  Temple  Bar:  Up  to  1878  a  gateway  separating  the  Strand 
from  Fleet  Street,  and  the  old  city  of  London  from  the  city  of 
Westminster.  Not  far  from  the  rendezvous  of  Johnson's  circle. 


Act  I]        THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  13 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  whether 
they  be  perverted  or  no?  The  women  in  my  time  were 
good  for  something.  I  have  seen  a  lady  dressed  from 
top  to  toe  in  her  own  maimfactures  formerly.  But 
now-a-days,  the  devil  a  thing  of  their  own  manufac- 
ture 's  about  them,  except  their  faces. 

Iloneywood.  But,  however  these  faults  may  be 
practised  abroad,  yoa  don't  find  them  at  home,  either 
with  Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia,  or  Miss  Richland. 

Croaker.  The  best  of  them  will  never  be  canonized 
for  a  saint  when  she  's  dead.  By  the  bye,  my  dear 
friend,  I  don't  find  this  match  between  Aliss  Rich- 
land and  my  son  much  relished,  either  by  one  side  or 
t'other. 

Honeywood.  I  thought  otherwise. 

Croaker.  Ah,  Mr.  Honeywood,  a  little  of  your  fine 
serious  advice  to  the  young  lady  might  go  far :  I  know 
she  has  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  your  undei'standing. 

Ilonei/ivood.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an 
authority  that  more  properly  belongs  to  yourself  ? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of  my 
authority  at  home.  People  think,  indeed,  because  they 
see  me  come  out  in  the  m.orning  thus,  with  a  pleasant 
face,  and  to  make  my  friends  merry,  that  all 's  well 
witliin.  But  I  have  cares  that  would  break  an  heart 
of  stone.  My  wife  has  so  encroached  upon  every  one 
of  my  ]nivileges,  that  I  'm  now  no  more  than  a  mere 
lodger  in  my  own  house. 

Iloneyioood.  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your  side 
might  perhaps  restore  your  authority. 

Croaker.  No,  tliough  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion  !  I  do 
rouse  sometimes.  But  what  then?  Always  haggling 
and  hnggling.  A  man  is  tired  of  getting  the  better 
before  liis  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the  victory. 


U  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN        [Act  I 

Honeyivood.  It 's  a  melancholy  consideration  in- 
deed, that  our  chief  comforts  often  produce  our  great- 
est anxieties,  and  that  an  increase  of  our  possessions 
is  but  an  inlet  to  new  disquietudes. 

Croaker.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  these  were  the  very 
words  of  poor  Dick  Doleful  to  me  not  a  week  before 
he  made  away  with  himself.  Indeed,  Mr.  Honeywood, 
I  never  see  you  but  you  put  me  in  mind  of  poor 
Dick.  Ah,  there  was  merit  neglected  for  you  !  and  so 
true  a  friend  !  we  loved  each  other  for  thirty  years, 
and  yet  he  never  asked  me  to  lend  him  a  single 
farthing. 

Iloneytvood.  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  com- 
mit so  rash  an  action  at  last  ? 

Croaker.  I  don't  know  :  some  people  were  malicious 
enough  to  say  it  was  keeping  company  with  me  ;  be- 
cause we  used  to  meet  now  and  then,  and  open  our 
hearts  to  each  other.  To  be  sure,  I  loved  to  hear  him 
talk,  and  he  loved  to  hear  me  talk  ;  poor  dear  Dick  ! 
He  used  to  say  that  Croaker  rhymed  to  joker ;  and  so 
we  used  to  laugh  —  Poor  Dick  !   (  Going  to  cry.^ 

Honnjwood.  His  fate  affects  me. 

Croaker.  Ay,  he  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life, 
where  we  do  nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hungry,  dress 
and  undress,  get  up  and  lie  down  ;  while  reason,  that 
should  watch  like  a  nurse  by  our  side,  falls  as  fast 
asleep  as  we  do. 

Honeywood.  To  say  a  truth,  if  we  compare  that  part 
of  life  which  is  to  come  by  that  which  we  have  past, 
the  prospect  is  hideous.^ 

•  the  prospect  is  hideous  :  "  If  I  slioiiUl  judjj^e  of  that  part 
of  life  wliich  lies  before  me,  by  that  which  1  have  already  seen, 
the  prospect  is  hideous."  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter 
ixxiii. 


Act  I]        THE  GOOD-NATURED   MAN  15 

Croaher.  Life  at  the  greatest  and  best  is  but  a 
froward  child,  that  must  be  humored  and  coaxed 
a  little  till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then  all  the  care  is 
over. 

Honeywood.  Very  true,  sir;  nothing  can  exceed  the 
vanity  of  our  existence  but  the  folly  of  our  pursuits. 
We  wept  when  we  came  into  the  world,  and  every  day- 
tells  us  why. 

Croalcer.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect  satis- 
faction to  be  miserable  with  you.  My  son  Leontine 
shan't  lose  the  benefit  of  such  fine  conversation.  I  '11 
just  step  home  for  him.  I  am  willing  to  show  him  so 
much  sei'iousness  in  one  scarce  older  than  himself. 
And  what  if  I  bring  my  last  letter  to  the  Gazetteei\^ 
on  the  increase  and  progress  of  earthquakes  ?  -  It  will 
amuse  us,  I  promise  you.  I  there  prove  how  the  late 
earthquake  is  coming  round  to  pay  us  another  visit, 
from  Londoia  to  Lisbon,  from  Lisbon  to  the  Canary 
Islands,  from  the  Canary  Islands  to  Palmyra,  from 
Palmyra  to  Constantinople,  and  so  from  Constanti- 
nople back  to  London  again.  {Exit. 

Honeyioood.  Poor  Croaker !  His  situation  deserves 
the  utmost  pity.  I  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits  these 
three  days.  Sure,  to  live  upon  such  terms,  is  worse 
than    death    itself.    And    yet,    when    I    consider  my 

1  Gazetteer  :  The  Gazetteer  and  London  Dally  Advertiser, 
1754:  and  following. 

2  earthquakes  :  Earthqnakes  were  held  to  come  as  retribu- 
tion for  sins  of  society.  So  the  London  earthquake  of  1750  and 
the  Lisbon  earthquake  of  1755  caused  a  sensation  that  lasted  a 
score  of  years.  As  a  result  of  the  latter  and  the  preaching  of 
Whitefield,  mascjuerades  were  almost  distiontinued.  In  1763 
Walpole  writes,  "  We  have  never  recovered  masquerades  sinc« 
the  earthquake  at  Lisbon,"  and  in  1768  he  says  of  a  masquerade 
at  Ranelagh,  "  The  bishops  will  call  this  giving  an  earthquake." 


16  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN         [Act  I 

own  situation,  —  a  broken  fortune,  a  hopeless  passion, 
friends  in  distress,  the  wish  but  not  the  power  to  serve 
them —    (^Pausing  and  sighing.^ 

Enter  Butler. 

Butler.  More  company  below,  sir ;  Mrs.  Croaker 
and  Miss  Richland ;  shall  I  show  them  up  ?  But 
they  're  showing  up  themselves.  [Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker  and  Miss  Richland. 

Miss  Richland.  You  're  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear  Hon- 
ey wood,  from  the  auction.^  There  was  the  old  deaf 
dowager,  as  usual,  bidding  like  a  fury  against  her- 
self. And  then  so  curious  in  antiques !  herself,  the 
most  genuine  piece  of  antiquity  in  the  whole  collec- 
tion. 

Honeywood.  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  some  uneasiness 
from  friendship  makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this  good- 
humor  :  I  know  you  '11  pardon  me. 

3Irs.  Croaker.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy  as  if 
he  had  taken  a  dose  of  my  husband  this  morning. 
"Well,  if  Richland  here  can  pardon  you,  I  must. 

Miss  Richland.  You  would  seem  to  insinuate, 
madam,  that  I  have  particular  reasons  for  being  dis- 
posed to  refuse  it. 

3lrs.  Croaker.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear, 
don't  be  so  ready  to  wish  an  explanation. 

Miss  Richland.  I  own  I  should  be  sorry  Mr. 
Honeywood's  long  friendship  and  mine  should  be  mis- 
understood. 

Honeywood.    There 's     no    answering   for   others, 

1  the  auction  :  A  favorite  diversion  of  eig^liteentli  century- 
people  of  quality.  Note  tliat  Tony  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  is 
first  seen  with  an  auctioneer's  mallet  iu  his  hand.  See  The 
School  fur  Scandal,  Act  IV,  Sc.  1. 


A-ctI]         the   GOOD-NATURED  MAN  17 

madam.  But  I  hope  you  '11  never  find  me  presuming 
to  offer  more  than  the  most  delicate  friendsliip  may 
readily  allow. 

Miss  lilchland.  And  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such  a 
tribute  from  you  than  the  most  passionate  professions 
from  others. 

Iloneywood.  My  own  sentiments,  madam  :  friend- 
ship is  a  disinterested  commerce  between  equals  ;  love, 
an  abject  intercourse  between  tyrants  and  slaves. 

Mls8  Richland.  And,  without  a  compliuient,  I  know 
none  more  disinterested,  or  more  capable  of  friendship, 
than  Mr.  Honeywood. 

3Irs.  Croiiker.  And,  indeed,  I  know  nobody  that 
Las  more  friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Miss  Fruzz, 
Miss  Oddbody,  and  Miss  Winterbottom,  praise  him  in 
all  companies.  As  for  Miss  Biddy  Bundle,  she's  his 
professed  admirer. 

Miss,  Txicldand.  Indeed!  an  admirer!  Idid  not  know, 
sir,  you  were  such  a  favorite  there.  But  is  she  seriously 
so  handsome?  Is  she  the  mighty  thing  talked  of? 

Honeyioood.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins  to 
praise  a  lady's  beauty  till  she 's  beginning  to  lose  it. 
(^Smiling.') 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  she  's  resolved  never  to  lose  it,  it 
seems.  For  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her  skill  improves 
in  making  the  artificial  one.  Well,  nothing  diverts  me 
more  than  one  of  those  fine  old  dressy  things,  who  thinks 
to  conceal  her  age  by  everywhere  exposing  her  person  ; 
sticking  herself  up  in  the  front  of  a  side-box  ;  ^  trailing 

*  front  of  aside-box  ;  From  Dol)son's  notes  to  his  Selections 
from  Steele  we  lejirii  that  early  in  the  century  it  had  been  the 
cnstoni  for  men  to  sit  in  the  side-boxes  and  ladies  in  the  front- 
boxes.  Even  at  this  time  it  was  considered  worthy  of  comment 
when  women  appeared  in  such  a  conspicuous  place  as  a  side- 


18  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN         [Act  I 

through  a  minuet  at  Ahnack's ;  ^  and  then,  in  the  pub- 
lic gardens,^  looking,  for  all  the  world,  like  one  of  the 
painted  ruins  of  the  place. 

Honeywood.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  ladies. 
While  you,  perhaps,  are  trading  among  the  warmer 
climates  of  youth,  there  ought  to  he  some  to  carry  on 
an  useful  commerce  in  the  frozen  latitudes  beyond 
fifty. 

Miss  HiMand.  But,  then,  the  mortifications  they 
must  suffer,  before  they  can  be  fitted  out  for  traffic.  I 
have  seen  one  of  them  fret  a  whole  morning  at  her 
hair-dresser,  when  all  the  fault  was  her  face. 

Honeywood.  And  yet,  I  '11  engage,  has  carried  that 
face  at  last  to  a  very  good  market.  This  good-natured 
town,  madam,  has  husbands,  like  spectacles,  to  fit  every 
age,  from  fifteen  to  fourscore. 

3Irs.  Croaker.  Well,  you're  a  dear  good-natured 
creature.  But  you  know  you  're  engaged  with  us  this 
morning  upon  a  strolling  party.  1  want  to  show  Olivia 
the  town,  and  the  things ;  I  believe  I  shall  have  busi' 
ness  for  you  for  the  whole  day. 

Iloiieytoood.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment with  Mr.  Croaker,  which  it  is  impossible  to  put 
off. 

box.  Five  years  later,  Johnson  and  his  party  occupied  the  "  front 
row  in  a  side-box  "  at  tlie  first  perfoiniance  of  Goldsmith's  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer.  (Cumberland's  Memoirs.) 

1  Almack's:  Assembly  rooms  in  King  Street,  St.  James, 
built  in  1765.  Entered  into  competition  with  Soho,  which  had  long 
been  a  favorite. 

To  charm  the  eyes  at  Almack's  or  Soho. 

Gareick,  Epilogue  to  False  Dehcacy  (17G8). 

'  public  gardens  :  Vauxhall  Gardens  were  the  most  popular 
in  London.  The  "  painted  ruins  "  are  the  ruins  of  Palmyra  that 
formed  a  vista  in  these  gardens. 


Act  I]         THE  GOOD-NATURED   MAN  19 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What !  with  my  husband !  Then 
I  'm  resolved  to  take  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest  you 
must.  You  know  I  never  laugh  so  much  as  with  you. 

JLmeyivood.   Why,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I'll  swear 

you  have  put  me  into  such  spirits.  Well,  do  you  find 

jest,  and  1  '11  find  laugh,  I  promise  you.  We  '11  wait 

for  the  chariot  in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Leontine  and  Olivia. 

Leontlne.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  happy. 
My  dearest  Olivia,  what  would  I  give  to  see  you  ca- 
pable of  sharing  in  their  amusements,  and  as  cheerful 
as  they  are. 

Olivia.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be  cheerful, 
when  I  have  so  }nany  terrors  to  oppress  me  ?  The  fear 
of  being  detected  by  this  family,  and  the  apprehensions 
of  a  censuring  world  when  I  must  be  detected  — 

Leontine.  The  world,  my  love  !  what  can  itsa}"?  At 
worst  it  can  only  say  that,  being  com])elled  by  a  mer- 
cenary guardian  to  embrace  a  life  you  disliked,  you 
formed  a  resolution  of  flying  with  the  man  of  your 
choice  ;  that  yon  confided  in  his  honor,  and  took  refuge 
in  my  father's  house ;  the  only  one  where  yours  could 
remain  without  censure. 

Olivia.  But  consider,  Leontine,  your  disobedience 
and  my  indiscretion  ;  your  being  sent  to  France  to 
bring  home  a  sister,  and,  instead  of  a  sister,  bringing 
home  — 

Leontine.  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters.  One 
that  I  am  convinced  will  be  equally  dear  to  the  rest  of 
the  family,  when  she  comes  to  be  known. 

Olivia.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Leontine.  Impossible,  till  we  ourselves  think  proper 
to  make  the  discovery.  My  sister,  you  know,  has  been 
with  her  aunt,  at  Lyons,  since  she  was  a  child,  and 


20  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN         [Act  1 

you  find  every  creature  in  the  family  takes  you  for 
her. 

Olivia.  But  may  n't  she  write,  may  n't  Ler  aunt 
write? 

Leontine.  Fler  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all  my 
sister's  letters  are  directed  to  me. 

Olivia.  But  won't  your  refusing  Miss  Richland,  for 
whom  you  know  the  old  gentleman  intends  you,  create 
a  suspicion  ? 

Leontine.  There,  there  's  my  master-stroke.  I  have 
resolved  not  to  refuse  her ;  nay,  an  hour  hence  I  have 
consent(;d  to  go  with  my  father  to  make  her  an  offer 
of  my  heart  and  fortune. 

Olivia.  Your  heart  and  fortune! 

Leontine.  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dearest.  Can  Olivia 
think  so  meanly  of  my  honor,  or  my  love,  as  to  suppose 
I  could  ever  hope  for  happiness  from  any  but  her?  No, 
my  Olivia,  neither  the  force,  nor,  permit  me  to  add,  the 
delicacy  of  my  passion,  leave  any  room  to  suspect  me. 
I  only  offer  Miss  Richland  an  heart  I  am  convinced 
she  will  refuse  ;  as  I  am  confident  that,  without  know- 
ing it,  her  affections  are  fixed  upon  Mr.  Honeywood. 
.  Olivia.  Mr.  Honeywood  !  You  'II  excuse  my  appre- 
hensions ;  but  when  your  merits  come  to  be  put  in  the 
balance  — 

Leontine.  You  view  them  with  too  much  partiality. 
However,  by  making  this  offer,  I  show  a  seeming  com- 
pliance with  my  fatlter's  connnands ;  and  perhaps, 
upon  her  refusal,  I  may  have  his  consent  to  choose  for 
myself. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leontine,  I 
own,  I  shall  envy  her  even  your  pretended  addresses. 
I  consider  every  look,  every  expression  of  j'our  esteem, 
af  due  only  to  me.    This  is  folly,  perhaps :  I  allow  it, 


Act  I]         THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  21 

but  it  is  natural  to  suppose  that  merit  which  has  made 
an  impression  on  one's  own  heart  may  be  powerful  over 
that  of  another. 

Leontlne.  Don't,  my  life's  treasure,  don't  let  us 
make  imaginary  evils,  when  you  know  we  have  so 
many  real  ones  to  encounter.  At  worst,  you  know,  if 
Miss  Richland  should  consent,  or  my  father  refuse  his 
pardon,  it  can  but  end  in  a  trip  to  Scotland  ;  ^  and  — • 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaher.  Where  have  you  been,  boy?  I  have  been 
seeking  you.  My  friend  Honeywood  here  has  been 
saying  such  comfortable  things.  Ah,  he  's  an  example 
indeed!   Where  is  he?  I  left  him  here. 

Leontlne.  Sir,  I  believe  you  may  see  him,  and  hear 
him  too,  in  the  next  I'oom ;  he  's  preparing  to  go  out 
with  the  ladies. 

Croaher.  Good  gracious,  can  I  believe  my  eyes  or 
my  ears !  I  'm  struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity,  and 
stunned  with  the  loudness  of  his  laugh.  Was  there 
eversuch  ati-ansformation!  (^A  laiighhehind  the  scenes; 
Croaher  mimics  it.^  Ha!  ha!  ha!  there  it  goes;  a 
plague  take  their  balderdash !  Yet  I  could  expect  no- 
thing less,  when  my  precious  wife  was  of  the  party. 
On  my  conscience,  I  believe  she  could  spread  an  horse- 
laugh through  the  pews  of  a  tabernacle. - 

Leontlne.  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to  a 

*  trip  to  Scotland:  The  belief  that  Scotland  was  a  Gretna 
Green  for  thwarted  lovers  often  appears.  "  I  'd  crawl  to  Scotland 
on  my  hands  and  knees;  nay  I  'd  live  there  all  my  days,  so  I 
could  bilk  this  elder  brother  with  Miss  Fairfax."  The  Choleric 
Man,  Act  III,  Scene  2.  Goldsmith  wrote  an  essay  on  Scotch 
Marriages  (1772). 

^  the  pe'ws  of  a  tabernacle:  Whitefield's  famous  meetinrr. 
house  in  Tottenham  Court  Koad.  See  Goldsmith's  .4n  £ssa2/ o?j 
the  Theatre :  "  as  gloomy  as  at  the  Tabernacle." 


22  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN         [Act  I 

wife,  sir,  how  can  you  be  so  earnest  in  recommending 
one  to  me  ? 

Croaker.  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again,  boy, 
that  Miss  Richland's  fortune  must  not  go  out  of  the 
family;  one  may  find  comfort  in  the  money,  whatever 
one  does  in  the  wife. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  though,  in  obedience  to  your 
desire,  I  am  ready  to  marry  her,  it  may  be  possible 
she  has  no  inclination  to  me. 

Croaker.  I  '11  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands.  A 
good  part  of  Miss  Richland's  large  fortune  consists  in 
a  claim  upon  Government,  which  my  good  friend,  Mr. 
Lofty,*  assures  me  the  Treasury  will  allow.  One-half 
of  this  she  is  to  forfeit,  by  her  father's  will,  in  case 
she  refuses  to  marry  you.  So,  if  she  rejects  you,  we 
seize  half  her  fortune  ;  if  she  accepts  you,  we  seize  the 
whole,  and  a  fine  girl  into  the  bargain. 

Leontine.   But,  sir,  if  you  will  but  listen  to  reason  — 

Croaker.  Come,  then,  produce  your  reasons.  I  tell 
you,  I  'm  fixed,  determined ;  so  now  produce  your  rea- 
sons. When  I  'm  determined,  I  always  listen  to  reason 
because  it  can  then  do  no  harm. 

Leontine.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice 
was  the  first  requisite  in  mati'iinonial  happiness. 

Croaker.  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a  mu- 
tual choice.  She  has  her  choice  —  to  marry  you,  or 
lose  half  her  fortune ;  and  you  have  your  choice  —  to 
marry  her,  or  pack  out  of  doors  without  any  fortune 
at  all. 

Leontine.  An  only  son,  sir,  might  expect  moi-e  in- 
dulgence. 

^  Mr.  Lofty:  As  first  written,  Lofty's  name  was  "Le  Bronze." 
Note  a  possible  play  on  this  name  in  Act  II,  Scene  1  (page  34), 
when  Lofty  says,  "  Oh,  there,  indeed,  I  'm  iu  bronze." 


Act  I]        THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  23 

Croaher.  An  only  father,  sir,  might  expect  more 
obedience;  besides, has  not  your  sister  here, that  never 
disobliged  me  in  her  life,  as  good  a  right  as  you  ?  lie  's 
a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and  would  take  all  from  you. 
But  he  shan't,  I  tell  you  he  shan't,  for  you  shall  have 
your  share. 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  I  wish  you  'd  be  convinced  that 
1  can  never  be  happy  in  any  addition  to  my  fortune 
which  is  taken  from  his. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  it 's  a  good  child,  so  say  no 
more  ;  but  come  with  me,  and  we  shall  see  something 
that  will  give  us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  I  promise 
you :  old  Ruggins,  the  curry-comb  maker,  lying  in 
state. ^  I'm  told  he  makes  a  very  handsome  corpse, 
and  becomes  his  coffin  prodigiously.  He  was  an 
intimate  friend  of  mine,  and  these  are  friendly  things 
we  ought  to  do  for  each  other.  [Exeunt. 

1  lying  in  state:  The  funeral  customs  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury had  often  been  ridiculed.  Steele's  Funeral,  or  Grief  a  la 
Mode,  remained  popular  on  the  stage  throughout  the  century. 

When  Hopkins  dies  a  thousand  lights  attend 
The  wretch,  who  living  saved  a  candle's  end. 

Pope,  Moral  Essays,  3d  Epistle. 

See  Walpole's  Letters  for  November  1,  17C0,  and  March  27, 
ITG-l,  and  Goldsmith's  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letters  xii  and 
evi. 


ACT  THE    SECOND 

Scene,  Croaker's  house. 

Miss  Richland,  Garnet. 

3Hss  R'lcMcuid.  Olivia  not  his  sister?  Olivia  not 
Leontine's  sister?    You  amaze  me  ! 

Garnet.  No  more  Lis  sister  than  I  am  ;  I  had  it  all 
from  his  own  servant ;  I  can  get  anything  from  that 
quarter, 

3Iiss  Richland.  But  how?    Tell  me  again,  Garnet. 

Garnet.  Why,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  instead 
of  going  to  Lyons  to  bring  home  his  sister,  who  ha? 
been  there  with  her  aunt  these  ten  years,  he  never 
went  further  than  Paris  ;  there  he  saw  and  fell  in  love 
with  this  young  lady  —  by  the  bye,  of  a  prodigious 
family. 

Miss  Richland.  And  brought  her  home  to  my 
guardian  as  his  daughter? 

Garnet.  Yes,  and  his  daughter  she  will  be.  If  ho 
don't  consent  to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  trying 
what  a  Scotch  parson  can  do. 

31iss  Richland.  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceived 
me  —  And  so  demurely  as  Olivia  carried  it  too! — • 
Would  you  believe  it,  Garnet,  I  told  her  all  my  secrets; 
and  yet  the  sly  cheat  concealed  all  this  from  me? 

Garnet.  And,  upon  my  word,  madam,  I  don't  much 
blame  her ;  she  was  loath  to  trust  one  with  her  secrets 
that  was  so  very  bad  at  keeping  her  own. 

Missi  Richland.  But,  to  add  to  their  deceit,  the 
young  gentleman,  it  seems,  pretends  to  make  me  serious 
proposals.  My  guardian  and  he  are  to  be  here  presently, 


Act  II]       THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN 


9n 


to  o])en  the  affair  in  form.  You  know  I  am  to  lose  half 
my  fortune  if  I  I'efuse  him. 

Garnet.  Yet,  what  can  you  do?  For  being,  as  you 
aie,  in  love  with  Mr.  Honey  wood,  madam  — 

3Iiss  liichland.  How!  idiot,  what  do  you  mean? 
In  love  with  Mr.  Honeywood  !   Is  this  to  provoke  me? 

Garnet.  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with  him  ; 
I  meant  nothing  more  than  friendship,  as  I  hope  to 
be  married  ;  nothing  more. 

Miss  liichland.  Well,  no  more  of  this.  As  to  my 
guardian  and  his  son,  they  shall  find  me  prepared  to 
receive  them  ;  I  'm  resolved  to  accept  their  proposal 
with  seeming  pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by  compliance, 
and  so  throw  the  refusal  at  last  upon  them. 

Garnet.  Delicious  !  and  that  will  secure  your  whole 
fortune  to  yourself.  Well,  who  could  iiave  thought  so 
innocent  a  face  could  cover  so  much  cuteness ! 

Miss  RicJdand.  Wh}^  girl,  I  only  oppose  my  pru- 
dence to  their  cunning,^  and  practise  a  lesson  they  have 
taught  me  against  themselves. 

Garnet.  Then  you  're  likely  not  long  to  want  em- 
ployment,  for  here  they  come,  and  in  close  conference. 

Enter  Croaker  and  Leontine. 

Leontine.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate  upon 
tlie  [joint  uf  putting  to  the  lady  so  important  a  ques- 
tion. 

'  oppose  my  prudence  to  their  cunning  :  Goldsmith  had 

evidently  l)et'ii  reading  The  Merchant  of  Venice  when  writing  the 
second  act  of  tliis  play.  Compare  Avith  tiie  above,  "  I  do  oppose 
my  j)atience  to  his  fury  "  (Act  IV,  Sc.  1).  Note  also  the  simi- 
larity between  Miss  Richland's  next  words  and  Shyloek's,  "The 
villainy  yon  teach  me  I  will  execute"  (Act  III,  Sc.  1),  and  the 
resemblance  between  the  sncceeding  comedy  of  Croaker  and  his 
sou  Leontine  and  the  comic  appeals  of  Old  Gobbo  and  his  son 
Lauucelot  before  Bassanio  (Act  II,  Sc.  2). 


26  THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN        [Act  II 

Croaker.  Lord!  good  sir,  moderate  your  fears; 
you  're  so  plaguy  shy,  that  one  would  think  you 
had  changed  sexes.  I  tell  you  we  must  have  the  half 
or  the  whole.  Come,  let  me  see  with  what  spirit  you 
begin.  Well,  why  don't  you?  Eh!  What?  Well 
then  —  I  must,  it  seems  —  Miss  Richland,  my  dear, 
I  believe  you  guess  at  our  business ;  an  affair  which 
my  son  here  comes  to  oj^en,  that  nearly  concerns  your 
happiness. 

Miss  liichland.  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not  to 
be  pleased  with  anything  that  comes  recommended  by 
you. 

Croaher.  How,  boy,  could  you  desire  a  finer  ojDen- 
ing?  Why  don't  you  begin,  I  say?  (7b  LeontineS) 

Leontlnc.  'Tis  true,  madam,  my  father,  madam,  has 
some  intentions  —  hem  —  of  explaining  an  affair  — 
which  —  himself  —  can  best  explain,  madam. 

Croaher.  Yes,  my  dear ;  it  comes  entirely  from  my 
son  ;  it's  all  a  request  of  his  own,  madam.  And  I  will 
permit  him  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

Leontine.  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam ; 
my  father  has  a  proposal  to  make  which  he  insists  none 
but  himself  shall  deliver. 

Croaker.  My  mind  misgives  me,  the  fellow  will 
never  be  brought  on.  (Aside.)  In  short,  madam,  you 
see  before  you  one  that  loves  you ;  one  whose  whole 
happiness  is  all  in  you. 

Jfiss  liichland.  I  never  had  any  doubts  of  your 
regard,  sir-,  and  I  hope  3'ou  can  have  none  of  my 
duty. 

Croaher.  That 's  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweeting ; 
my  love  !    No,  no,  another-guess  lover  ^  than  I ;  there 

1  another-guess  lover  :  A  lover  of  another  sort.  "  Then  we 
should  have  things  done  in  another-guess  manner."  The  Vicar  oj 


Act  II]       THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN  21 

he  stands,  madam ;  his  very  looks  declare  the  force  of 
his  passion!  —  Call  up  a  look,  you  dog  —  But  then, 
had  you  seen  him,  as  I  have,  weeping,  speaking  solilo- 
quies and  blank  verse,  sometimes  melancholy,  and 
sometimes  absent  — 

Mias  Itlchlarid.  I  fear,  sir,  he 's  absent  now ;  or 
such  a  declaration  would  have  come  most  properly 
from  himself. 

Croaker.  Himself,  Madam !  He  would  die  before 
he  could  make  such  a  confession  ;  and  if  he  had  not  a 
cliannel  for  his  passion  through  me,  it  would  ere  now 
have  drowned  his  understanding. 

3Iiss  Hichland.  I  must  grant,  sir,  there  are  attrac- 
tions in  modest  diffidence  above  the  force  of  words.  A 
silent  address  is  the  genuine  eloquence  of  sincerity. 

Croaker.  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any  other 
language ;  silence  is  become  his  mother-tongue. 

3Hss  Uichland.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  sir,  it 
speaks  very  powerfully  in  his  favor.  And  yet  I  shall 
be  thought  too  forward  in  making  such  a  confession ; 
shan't  I,  Mr.  Leontine? 

Leontine.  Confusion !  my  reserve  will  undo  me. 
But,  if  modesty  attracts  her,  impudence  may  disgust 
her.  I  '11  try.  (^Aside.^  —  Don't  imagine  from  my  si- 
lence, madam,  that  I  want  a  due  sense  of  the  honor 
and  happiness  intended  me.  My  father,  madam,  tells 
me  your  humble  servant  is  not  totally  indifferent  to 
you.  He  admires  you ;  I  adore  you  ;  and  when  we 
come  together,  upon  my  soul,  I  believe  we  shall  be  the 
happiest  couple  in  all  St.  James's.^ 

Wakefield yc\v\\i.  xix.  See  Browning's  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  IV", 
1498. 

'  in  all  St.  James's  :  The  fashionable  district  of  London,  SL 
James's  Parish,  is  referred  to. 


28  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN       [Act  II 

3Iiss  Michland.  If  I  could  flatter  myself  you 
thought  as  you  speak,  sir  — 

Leontlne.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam  ?  By  your 
dear  self  I  swear !  Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire  glory  1 
ask  cowards  if  they  covet  safety  — 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it. 

Leontine.  Ask  tlie  sick  if  they  long  for  health  ;  ask 
misers  if  they  love  mone^^,  ask  — 

Croaker.  Ask  a  fool  if  he  can  talk  nonsense ! 
What 's  come  over  the  boy  ?  What  signifies  asking, 
when  there  's  not  a  soul  to  give  you  an  answer  ?  If 
you  would  ask  to  the  purpose,  ask  this  lady's  consent 
to  make  you  happy. 

3Iiss  Hichland.  Why,  indeed,  sir,  his  uncommon 
ardor  almost  compels  me,  forces  me  to  comply.  And 
yet  I  'm  afraid  he  '11  despise  a  conquest  gained  with 
too  much  ease  ;  won't  you,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 

Leontine.  Confusion  !  (^Aside.^  Oh,  by  no  means, 
madam,  by  no  means.  And  yet,  madam,  you  talked 
of  force.  There  is  nothing  I  would  avoid  so  much 
as  compulsion  in  a  thing  of  this  kind.  No,  madam, 
I  will  still  be  generous,  and  leave  you  at  liberty  to 
refuse. 

Croaker.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  lady  is  not  at  lil>- 
erty.  It 's  a  match.  You  see  she  says  notliing.  Silence 
gives  consent. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  she  talked  of  force.  Consider, 
sir,  the  cruelty  of  constraining  her  inclinations. 

Croaker.  But  I  say  there  's  no  cruelty.  Don't  you 
know,  blockhead,  that  girls  have  always  a  roundabout 
way  of  saying  yes  before  company  ?  So  get  you  both 
gone  together  into  the  next  room,  and  hang  him  that 
interrupts  the  tender  explanation.  Get  you  gone,  J 
say ;  I  '11  not  hear  a  word. 


Act  II]       THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN  29 

Leontine.    But,  sir,  I  must  beg  leave  to  insist  — 
Croaker.   Get  off,  you  puj){)y,  or  I  '11  beg  leave  to 
insist  upon  knocking  you  down.  Stupid  whelp  !  But  I 
don't  wonder  ;  the  boy  takes  entirely  after  his  mother. 

[Exeunt  Miss  Richland  and  Leontine. 
Enter  Mrs.  Croaker. 

J/rs.  Croaker.  Mr.  Croaker,  I  bring  you  something, 
my  dear,  that  I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 

Croaker.  I  '11  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my 
dear. 

Jlrs.  Croaker.  A  letter;  and,  as  I  knew  the  hand, 
I  ventured  to  open  it. 

Croaker.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  breaking 
open  my  letters  should  give  me  pleasure? 

3/rs.  Croaker.  Poo  !  it 's  from  your  sister  at  Lyons, 
and  contains  good  news  ;  read  it. 

Croaker.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here !  That 
sister  of  mine  has  some  good  qualities ;  but  I  could 
never  teach  her  to  fold  a  letter. 

3frs.  Croaker.  Fold  a  fiddlestick !  Read  what  it 
contains. 

Croaker  Qreading^. 

Dear  Nick,  —  An  English  gentleman.,  of  large  for- 
tune, has  for  some  time  made  private,  though  honor- 
able proposals  to  your  daug liter  Olivia.  They  love 
each  other  tenderly,  and  I  find  she  has  consented, 
without  letting  any  of  the  family  knoio,  to  croion  his 
addresses.  As  such  good  offers  don't  cotne  every  day, 
your  oion  good  soise,  his  large  fortune  and  family 
considerations,  will  induce  you  to  forgive  her. 

Vours  ever,  Kachakl  Croaker. 

My  daughter  Olivia  privately  contracted  to  a  man  of 
large  fortune  I  This  is  good  news  indeed  !  My  heart 
never  foretold  me  of  this.  And  yet,  how  slyly  the  little 


30  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN       [Act  II 

baggage  has  carried  it  since  she  canie  home.  Not  a 
word  on  't  to  the  okl  ones  for  the  world  !  Yet  I  thonght 
I  saw  something  she  wanted  to  conceaL 

3Irs.  Croaker.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed  their 
amour,  they  shan't  conceal  their  wedding;  that  shall 
be  public,  I'm  resolved. 

Croaker.  I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the 
most  foolish  part  of  the  ceremony.  I  can  never  get 
this  woman  to  think  of  the  most  serious  part  of  the 
nuptial  engagement. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What  would  you  have  me  think  of, 
their  funeral?  But  come,  tell  me,  my  dear,  don't  you 
owe  more  to  me  than  you  care  to  confess?  Would  you 
have  ever  been  known  to  Mr.  Lofty,  who  has  under- 
taken Miss  Richland's  claim  at  the  Treasury,  but  for 
me?  Who  was  it  first  made  him  an  acquaintance  at 
Lady  Shabbaroon's  rout?  Who  got  him  to  promise 
us  his  interest?  Is  not  he  a  back-stairs  favorite, 
one  that  can  do  what  he  pleases  with  those  that  do 
what  they  please  ?  Is  n't  he  an  acquaintance  that  all 
your  groaning  and  lamentations  could  never  have  got 
us? 

Croaker.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant  you. 
And  yet,  what  amazes  me  is,  that  while  he  is  giving 
away  places  to  all  the  world,  he  can't  get  one  for  him- 
self. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  That,  perhaps,  may  be  owing  to  his 
nicety.   Great  men  are  not  easily  satisfied. 

Enter  French  Servant. 

Servant.  An  expresse  ^  from  Monsieur  Lofty.  He 
vil  be  vait  upon  your  honoi-s  instanimant.  He  be  only 
giving  four  five  instruction,  read  two  tree  memorial, 

'  an  expresse  :  A  personal  messenger;  usually  used  only  by 
royalty. 


Act  II]       THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  31 

call  upon  von  anibassadeur.  He  vil  be  vid  you  in  one 
tree  minutes. 

Jlrs.  Croaker.  You  see  now,  my  dear.  What  an  ex- 
tensive department !  Well,  friend,  let  your  master  know 
tliat  we  are  extremely  honored  by  this  honor.  Was 
there  anything  ever  in  a  higher  style  of  breeding?  All 
messages  among  the  great  are  now  done  by  express. 

[iLxit  French  Servant. 

Croaker.  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  little  things  with 
more  solemnity,  or  claims  more  respect  than  he.  But 
he's  in  the  right  on 't.  In  our  bad  world,  respect  is 
given  where  respect  is  claimed. 

Jlrs.  Croaker.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear ; 
you  were  never  in  a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life.  Let 
us  now  think  of  receiving  him  with  proper  respect  — 
(a  loud  rapping  at  the  door^,  —  and  there  he  is,  by 
the  thundering  rap. 

Cj'oaker.  Ay,  verily,  there  he  is!  as  close  upon  the 
heels  of  his  own  express,  as  an  endorsement  upon  the 
back  of  a  bill.  Well,  I  '11  leave  you  to  receive  him, 
whilst  I  go  to  chide  my  little  Olivia  for  intending  to 
steal  a  marriage  without  mine  or  her  aunt's  consent. 
I  must  seem  to  be  angry,  or  she  too  may  begin  to  de- 
spise my  authority.  [Exit. 

Enter  Lofty,  s})eaking  to  his  Servant. 

Lofty.  And  if  the  Venetian  ambassador,  or  that 
teasing  creature,  the  Marquis,  should  call,  I'm  not  at 
home.  Dam'me,  I'll  be  pack-horse  to  none  of  them! 
—  My  dear  madam,  I  have  jnst  snatched  a  moment  — 
And  if  the  expresses  to  his  Gi'ace  be  ready,  let  them 
be  sent  off;  they're  of  importance. — Madam,  I  ask 
ten  thousand  pardons ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Sir,  this  honor  — ■ 

Lofty.  And,  Dnbardieu  I  If  the  person  calls  about 


32  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN       [Act  II 

the  commission,  let  him  know  that  it  is  made  out.  As 
for  Lord  Cumbercourt's  stale  request,  it  can  keep  cold : 
you  understand  me.  —  Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand, 
pardons ! 

3Irs.  Croaker.  Sir,  this  honor  — 

Lofty.  And,  Dabardieu!  if  the  man  comes  from  the 
Cornish  borough,  you  must  do  him  ;  you  must  do  him, 
I  say. —  Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons.  —  And  if 
the  Russian  ambassador  calls;  but  he  will  scarce  call 
to-day,  I  believe.  —  And  now,  madam,  I  have  just  got 
time  to  express  my  happiness  in  having  the  honor  of 
being  permitted  to  profess  myself  your  most  obedient, 
)iumble  servant ! 

Mi'8.  Croaker.  Sir,  the  happiness  and  honor  are  all 
mine ;  and  yet,  I  'm  only  robbing  the  public  while  I 
detain  you. 

Lofty.  Sink  the  public,  madam,  when  the  fair  are 
to  be  attended.  Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so  charm- 
ingly devoted  !  Sincerely,  don't  you  pity  us  poor  crea- 
tures in  affairs?  Thus  it  is  eternall}' ;  solicited  for 
places  here,  teased  for  pensions  there,  and  courted 
everywhere.  I  know  you  pity  me.  Yes,  I  see  you  do. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Excuse  nie,  sir.  "  Toils  of  empires 
pleasures  are,"  as  Waller  sa3^s.^ 

Lofty.  Waller,  Waller  ;  is  he  of  the  House  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  modern  poet  of  that  name, 
sir. 

Lofty.  Oh,  a  modern  !  We  men  of  business  despise 
the  moderns ;  and  as  for  the  ancients,  we  have  no  time 
to  read  them.  Poetry  is  a  pretty  thing  enough  for  our 
wives  and  daughters;  but  not  for  us.  Why  now,  here 

'  "Toils  of  empires":  No  such  line  can  be  found  in  the 
works  of  Waller,  an  English  poet  (1G05-87),  who  dealt  largely 
ivith  political  topics. 


Act  II]       THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  33 

I  stand  tljat  know  nothing  of  books,  I  say,  madam,  I 
kaow  nothing  of  books;  and  yet,  I  believe,  upon  a  land- 
carriage  fishery,'  a  stamp  act,-  or  a  jaghire,^  I  can  talk 
my  two  honrs  without  feeling  the  want  of  them. 

J/rs.  Croaker.  The  world  is  no  stranger  to  ]\Ir. 
Lofty's  eminence  in  every  capacit3\ 

Lofty.  I  vow  to  gad,  madam,  you  make  me  blush. 
I'm  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world:  a  mere 
obscure  gentleman.  To  be  sure,  indeed,  one  or  two  of 
the  present  ministers  are  pleased  to  represent  me  as  a 
formidable  man.  I  know  they  are  pleased  to  bespatter 
me  at  all  their  little  dirty  levees.  Yet,  upon  my  soul, 
I  wonder  what  they  see  in  me  to  treat  me  so !  Mea- 
sures, not  men,'*  have  always  been  my  mark;  and  I 
vow,  by  all  that 's  honorable,  my  resentment  has  never 
done  the  men,  as  mere  men,  any  manner  of  harm  — 
that  is,  as  mere  Tuen. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What  importance,  and  yet  what 
modesty ! 

Lofty.  Oh,  if  yovi  talk  of  modesty,  madam,  there  I 
own,  I  'm  accessible  to  praise.  Modesty  is  my  foible  ; 
it  was  so  the  Duke  of  Brentford  used  to  say  of  me, 
"  I  love  Jack  Lofty,"  he  used  to  say;  "  no  man  has  a 
finer  knowledge  of  things;  quite  a  man  of  information; 

1  land-carriage  fishery :  Doljson  says  (Notes  to  Goldsmitli's 
Plays,  Belles-Lettres  Series)  tliat  fish  inacliines  for  carrying  fish 
to  Loudon  were  inti-odueed  in  1761. 

'  stamp  act :  The  question  of  American  taxation  had  been 
up  in  Tai'liament  since  1764,  and  in  the  debates  that  followed, 
Goldsmitli's  friend  Burke  liad  taken  an  active  ])art. 

3  jaghire:  A  term  arising  from  England's  traffic  in  India  ; 
meaning  an  assignment  of  government  produce  to  a  person  as  an 
anmiity.  See  Burke's  Impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings,  Fifth  Day. 

*  Measures,  not  men:  Compare  this  with  Burke's  "Of  this 
stamp  is  the  cant  of  Not  men  but  measures."  Thoughts  on  the  Cause 
of  Prespnt  Dlsrnntents. 


34  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN       [Act  II 

and,  when  he  speaks  upon  his  legs,  by  the  Lord,  he  's 
prodigious,  he  scouts  them ;  and  yet  all  men  have  their 
faults ;  too  much  modesty  is  his,"  says  his  Grace. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  yet,  I  dare  say,  you  don't 
want  assurance  when  you  come  to  solicit  for  your 
friends. 

Lofty.  Oh,  there,  indeed,  I 'm  in  bronze.*  Apropos, 
I  have  just  been  mentioning  Miss  Richland's  case  to  a 
certain  personage ;  we  must  name  no  names.  When  T 
ask,  I  'm  not  to  be  put  off,  madam.  No,  no,  I  take  my 
friend  by  the  button.  —  "A  fine  girl,  sir  ;  great  justice 
in  her  case.  A  friend  of  mine  —  borough  interest  — 
business  must  be  done,  Mr.  Secretary.  —  I  say,  Mr. 
Secretary,  her  business  must  be  done,  sir."  —  That's 
my  way,  madam ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Bless  me !  you  said  all  this  to  the 
Secretary  of  State,  did  you .? 

Lofty.  I  did  not  say  the  Secretary,  did  I?  Well, 
curse  it,  since  you  have  found  me  out,  I  will  not  deny 
it.  It  was  to  the  Secretary. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain-head 
at  once,  not  applying  to  the  understrappers,  as  Mr. 
Honeywood  would  have  had  us. 

Lofty.  Honeywood  !  he  !  he  !  He  was,  indeed,  a  fine 
solicitor.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has  just  hap- 
pened to  him  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Poor  dear  man,  no  accident,  I  hope  ? 

Lofty.  Undone,  madam,  that 's  all.  His  creditors 
have  taken  him  into  custody.  A  prisoner  in  his  own 
house. ^ 

'  I'm  in  bronze:  brazen.  See  note  on  Mr.  Lofty,  Act  1, 
page  22. 

2  prisoner  in  his  o-ro-n  house:  See  note  on  arrest  him  for 
,  .  .  debt,  Act  1,  page  6. 


Act  II]      THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN  35 

Mrs.  Croaher.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house  !  How  I 
At  this  very  time!   I  'lu  quite  unhappy  for  him. 

Lofty.  Why,  so  am  I.  The  man,  to  be  sure,  was 
immensely  good-natured.  But  then,  I  could  never  find 
that  he  had  anything  in  him. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  exces- 
sive harmless  ;  some,  indeed,  thought  it  a  little  dull. 
For  my  part,  I  always  concealed  my  opinion. 

Lofty.  It  can't  be  concealed,  madam  ;  the  man  was 
dull  —  dull  as  the  last  new  comedy!  ^  A  poor,  imprac- 
ticable creature !  I  tried  once  or  twice  to  know  if  he 
was  fit  for  business ;  but  he  had  scarce  talents  to  be 
groom-porter  to  an  orange-barrow. 

3Irs.  Croaher.  How  differently  does  Miss  Richland 
think  of  him!  For,  I  believe,  with  all  his  faults,  she 
loves  him. 

Jjofty.  Loves  him  !  does  she?  You  should  cure  her 
of  that  by  all  means.  Let  me  see;  what  if  she  were 
sent  to  him  this  instant,  in  his  present  doleful  situa- 
tion? My  life  for  it,  that  works  her  cure.  Distress  is 
a  perfect  antidote  to  love.  Suppose  we  join  her  in 
the  next  room  ?  Miss  Richland  is  a  fine  girl,  has  a 
fine  fortune,  and  must  not  be  thrown  away.  Upon  mj 
honor,  madam,  I  have  a  regard  for  Miss  Richland; 
and,  rather  than  she  should  be  thrown  away,  I  sliould 
think  it  no  indignity  to  marry  her  myself.  \^Exeunt. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Leontine. 

Leontinc.  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every 
reason  to  expect  Miss  Richland's  refusal,  as  I  did 
everything  in  my  power  to  deserve  it.  Her  indelicacy 
surprises  me. 

'  dull  as  the  lastne^w  comedy;  The  genteel  comedies  were 
in  fact  quite  dull.  Goldsniitli  could  hardly  have  had  a  particular 
comedy  in  mind. 


36  THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN       [Act  II 

Olivia.  Sui-e,  Leontine,  tliere  is  nothing  so  indeli- 
cate in  being  sensible  of  your  merit.  If  so,  I  fear  I 
shall  be  the  most  guilty  thing  alive. 

Leontine.  But  you  mistake,  my  clear.  The  same 
attention  I  used  to  advance  my  merit  with  you,  I  prac- 
tised to  lessen  it  with  her.   What  more  could  I  do? 

Olivia.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what  is  to  be 
done.  We  have  both  dissembled  too  long.  —  I  have 
always  been  ashamed  —  I  am  now  quite  weary  of  it. 
Sure,  I  could  never  have  undergone  so  much  for  any 
other  but  you. 

Leontine.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal  to 
your  kindest  compliance.  Though  our  friends  should 
totally  forsake  us,  Olivia,  we  can  draw  upon  content 
for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Olivia.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme  of 
humble  happiness,  when  it  is  now  in  our  power  ?  I 
may  be  the  favorite  of  your  father,  it  is  true  ;  but  can 
it  ever  be  thought  that  his  present  kindness  to  a  sup- 
posed child  will  continue  to  a  known  deceiver? 

Leontine.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will. 
As  his  attachments  are  but  few,  they  are  lasting.  His 
own  marriage  was  a  private  one,  as  ours  may  be. 
Besides,  I  have  sounded  him  already  at  a  distance, 
and  find  all  his  answers  exactly  to  our  wish.  Nay,  by 
an  expression  or  two  that  dropped  from  him,  I  am 
induced  to  think  he  knows  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Indeed  I  But  that  would  be  a  happiness  too 
great  to  be  expected. 

Leontine.  However  it  be,  I  'm  certain  you  have 
power  over  him  ;  and  am  persuaded,  if  you  informed 
him  of  our  situation,  that  he  would  be  disposed  to  par- 
don it. 

Olivia.  You  had  equal  expectations,  Leontine.  from 


Act  II]       THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  37 

your  last  scheme  with  Miss  llichland,  which  you  find 
has  succeeded  most  wretchedly. 

Ijcontliic.  And  that's  tlie  best  reason  for  trying 
another. 

Olivia.  If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit. 

Leontine  As  we  could  wish,  he  comes  this  way. 
Now,  my  dearest  Olivia,  be  resolute.  I  '11  just  retire 
within  hearing,  to  come  in  at  a  proper  time,  either  to 
share  your  danger,  or  confirm  3'our  victory.  {Exit. 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her;  and  yet  not  too 
easily,  neither.  It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up  the  deco- 
rums of  resentment  a  little,  if  it  be  only  to  impress  her 
with  an  idea  of  my  authority. 

Olivia.  How  I  tremble  to  approach  him! —  Might 
I  presume,  sir  —  if  I  interrupt  you  — 

Croaker.  No,  child,  where  I  have  an  affection,  it 
is  not  a  little  thing  can  interrupt  me.  Affection  gets 
over  little  things. 

Olivia.  Sir,  you  're  too  kind.  I  'm  sensible  how  ill 
I  deserve  this  partiality.  Yet,  Heaven  knows,  there  is 
nothing  I  would  not  do  to  gain  it. 

Croaher.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded,  you 
little  hussy,  you.  With  those  endearing  ways  of  3'ours, 
on  my  conscience,  I  could  be  brought  to  forgive  any- 
thing, unless  it  were  a  very  great  offence  indeed. 

Olivia.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence  —  When  you 
know  my  guilt — Yes,  you  shall  know  it,  though  I 
feel  the  greatest  pain  in  the  confession. 

Croaher.  Why,  then,  if  it  be  so  very  great  a  pain 
you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble  ;  for  I  know  every 
syllable  of  the  matter  before  you  begin. 

Olivia.  Indeed  !  then  I  'm  undone  ! 

Croaher.  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match, 


38  THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN       [Act  II 

without  letting  me  know  it,  did  you?  But  I'm  not 
v;orth  being  consulted,  I  suppose,  when  there  's  to  be 
a  marriage  in  my  own  family!  No,  I'm  to  have  no 
hand  in  the  disposal  of  my  own  children  !  No,  I  'm 
nobody !  I  'm  to  be  a  mere  article  of  family  lumber  ; 
a  piece  of  cracked  china,  to  be  stuck  up  in  a  corner  !  ^ 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  youi 
authority  could  induce  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Croaker.  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  more  ;  I  'm 
as  little  minded  as  a  dead  Kussian  in  winter,  just 
stuck  up  with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth  till  tliere  comes  a 
thaw  —  It  goes  to  my  heart  to  vex  her.   (^Aside.^ 

Olivia.  I  was  prepared,  sir,  for  your  anger,  and 
despaired  of  pardon,  even  while  I  presumed  to  ask  it. 
But  your  severity  shall  never  abate  my  affection,  as 
my  punishment  is  but  justice. 

Croaker.  And  yet  you  sliould  not  despair,  neither, 
Livy.  We  ought  to  hope  all  for  the  best. 

Olivia.  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope,  sir?  Can 
I  ever  expect  to  be  forgiven  ?  But  hope  has  too  long 
deceived  me. 

Croaker.  Why  then,  child,  it  shan't  deceive  you 
now,  for  I  forgive  you  this  very  moment.  I  forgive 
you  all ;  and  now  you  are  indeed  my  daughter. 

Olivia.  Oh  transport !  this  kindness  overpowers 
me ! 

1  cracked  china,  to  be  stuck  up  in  a  corner:  Compare 
with  this  a  line  in  Goldsmith's  Description  of  an  Author's  Bed- 
chamber :  — 

Anil  five  crack'd  teacups  dress'd  the  chimney-board, 

and  lines  in  The  Deserted  Village  :  — 

While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Is  not  this,  as  H.  W.  Boynton  thinks  of  a  like  passage  in   The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  a  reminiscence  of  Goldsmith's  early  home  ? 


Act  II]       THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  39 

Croaker.  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our  cbil- 
Jien.  We  have  been  young  and  giddy  ourselves,  and 
we  can't  expect  boys  and  girls  to  be  old  before  their 
time. 

Olivia.  AVhat  generosity !  But  can  you  forget  the 
many  falsehoods,  tlie  dissimulation  — 

Croaker.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin,' 
you;  but  where  's  the  girl  that  won't  dissemble  for  an 
husband  ?  My  wife  and  I  had  never  been  married,  if 
we  had  not  dissembled  a  little  beforehand. 

Olivia.  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put 
such  generosity  to  a  second  trial.  And  as  for  the  part- 
ner of  my  offence  and  folly,  from  his  native  honor, 
and  the  just  sense  he  has  of  his  duty,  I  can  answer 
for  him  that  — 

Enter  Leontine. 

Leontine.  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  himself. 
(^Kneeling.')  Thus,  sir,  let  me  speak  my  gratitude  for 
this  unmerited  forgiveness.  Yes,  sir,  this  even  exceeds 
all  your  former  tenderness  :  I  now  can  boast  the  most 
indulgent  of  f;itliers.  The  life  he  gave,  compared  to 
this,  was  but  a  trifling  blessing. 

Croaker.  And,  good  sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with  that 
fine  tragedy  face,  and  flourishing  manner?  I  don't 
know  what  we  have  to  do  with  your  gratitude  upon 
this  occasion. 

Leontine.  How,  sir!  is  it  possible  to  be  silent,  -when 
so  much  obliged?  Would  yon  refuse  me  the  pleasure 
of  being  grateful?  Of  adding  my  thanks  to  my  Oliv- 
ia's ?  Of  sharing  in  the  transports  that  you  have  thus 
occnsioned? 

Croitlcer.  Lord,  sir,  we  can  be  happy  enough  without 

1  you  urchin:    Usually  applied  to  boys.   Here  used  with  a 

playful  significance. 


40  THE  GOOD-NATURED   MAN       [Act  II 

your  coming  in  to  make  up  the  party.  I  don't  know 
what 's  the  matter  with  the  boy  all  this  day  ;  he  has  got 
into  such  a  rhodomontade  ^  manner  all  this  morning! 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part  in 
the  benefit,  is  it  not  my  duty  to  show  my  joy?  Is  tlie 
being  admitted  to  your  favor  so  slight  an  obligation  ? 
Is  the  happiness  of  marrying  my  Olivia  so  small  a 
blessing  ? 

Croalcer.  Marrying  Olivia!  marrying  Olivia!  mar- 
rying his  own  sister !  Sure  the  boy  is  out  of  his 
senses.    His  own  sister  ! 

Leontine.  My  sister ! 

Olivia.  (^Aside.^  Sister !  how  have  I  been  mis- 
taken ! 

Leontine.  (^Aside.'j  Some  cursed  mistake  in  all 
this  I  find. 

Croalcer.  What  does  the  booby  mean,  or  has  he 
any  meaning?  Eh,  what  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead, 
you? 

Leontine.  Mean,  sir?  —  why,  sir — only  when  my 
sister  is  to  be  married,  that  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
marrying  her,  sir,  that  is,  of  giving  her  away,  sir,  — 
I  have  made  a  point  of  it. 

Croaker.  Oh,  is  that  all?  "  Give  her  away."  You 
"  have  made  a  point  of  it."  Then  you  had  as  good 
make  a  point  of  first  giving  away  yourself,  as  I'm 
going  to  prepare  the  writings  between  you  and  Miss 
Richland  this  very  minute.  What  a  fuss  is  here  about 
nothing!  Why,  what's  the  matter  now?  I  thought  I 
had  made  you,  at  least,  as  happy  as  you  could  wish. 

Olivia.  Oh,  yes,  sir  ;  very  happy. 

Croaker.    Do  you   foresee   anything,   child?    You 

'  rhodomontade  :  bluster.  Rodoinonte  was  a  boastful  Moor- 
ish kiu!^  iu  Ariosto's  Orlando  Innamorato  and  Orlando  Furioso. 


Act  III]     THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  41 

look  ;ks  if  you  did,  I  think  if  anytliing  was  to  be  fore- 
seen, I  have  as  sharp  a  lookout  as  another;  and.  yet  1 
foresee  notliing".  [Exit. 

Leontine  and  Olivia. 

Olivia.   What  can  it  mean? 

Leontine.  He  knows  something,  and  yet,  for  my 
life,  I  can't  tell  what. 

Olivia.  It  can't  be  the  connection  between  us,  I'm 
pretty  certain. 

Leontine.  Whatever  it  be,  my  dearest,  I  'm  resolved 
to  put  it  out  of  fortune's  power  to  repeat  our  mortifi- 
cation. I'll  haste  and  prepare  for  our  journey  to  Scot- 
land, this  very  evening.  My  friend  Honeywood  has 
promised  me  his  advice  and  assistance.  I  '11  go  to  him 
and  repose  our  distresses  on  his  friendly  bosom ;  and 
I  know  so  much  of  his  honest  heart,  that  if  he  can't 
relieve  our  uneasinesses,  he  will  at  least  share  them. 

{Exeunt. 


ACT  THE  THIRD 

Scene,  Youxg  honeywood's  house.* 

Bailiff,  Honeyicood,  Follower. 

Bailiff.  Lookye,  sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good  men 
as  you  iu  my  time;  no  disparagement  of  you  neither: 
men  that  would  go  forty  guineas  on  a  game  of  cribbage. 
I  challenge  the  town  to  show  a  man  in  more  genteeler 
pi-actice  than  myself ! 

Iloncijirood.  Without  all  question,  Mr.  I  for 

get  your  name,  sir.'' 

'  Scene  of  bailiffs:  Tliis  scene  was  witlidrawn  after  the  first 
perfoiniiiDce.  It  was,  liowever,  included  in  the  published  editioUf 
and  was  returned  to  the  stage  May  3,  1773. 


42  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN     [Act  III 

Bailiff.  How  can  j^ou  forget  what  you  never  knew? 
he,  he,  he! 

Honeyicood.  May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name? 

Bailiff.  Yes,  you  may. 

Honeywood.  Then,  pray,  sir,  what  is  your  name,  sir? 

BaiHff\  That  I  did  n't  promise  to  tell  you.  He,  he, 
he  !  A  joke  breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among  us  that 
practice  the  law. 

Honeywood.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping  it 
a  secret,  perhaps? 

Bailiff.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason.  I'm 
ashamed  to  tell  my  name  to  no  man,  sir.  If  you  can 
show  cause,  as  why,  upon  a  special  capus,^  that  I 
should  prove  my  name  —  But  come,  Timothy  Twitch 
is  my  name.  And,  now  you  know  my  name,  what  have 
you  to  saj^  to  that? 

Honeywood.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr.  Twitch, 
but  that  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  that 's  all. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  favors  are  more  easily  asked  than 
granted,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practice  the  law.  I 
have  taken  an  oath  against  granting  favors.  Would 
you  liave  me  perjure  myself? 

Honeyicood.  But  my  request  will  come  recom- 
mended in  so  strong  a  manner,  as  I  believe  you  'U 
have  no  scruple  Qndling  out  his  jmrse^.  The  thing  is 
only  this  :  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  discharge  this 
trifle  in  two  or  three  days  at  farthest ;  but  as  I  would 
not  have  the  affair  known  for  the  world,  I  have 
thoughts  of  keeping  you,  and  your  good  friend  here, 
about  me,  till  the  debt  is  discharged  ;  for  which  I  shall 
be  properly  grateful. 

Bailiff.  Oh  !  that 's  another  maxum,-  and  altogether 

'  capus  :  For  capias,  a  writ  of  arrest. 
^  masum  :  Maxim. 


A.CT  III]     THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  43 

within  my  oath.  For  certain,  if  an  honest  man  is  to 
get  anything  by  a  thing,  there  's  no  reason  why  all 
things  should  not  be  done  in  civility. 

Iloneywood.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr. 
Twitch  ;  and  yours  is  a  necessary  one.  {Gives  him 
moiicy.') 

Bailiff,  Oh  !  your  honor !  I  hope  your  honor  takes 
nothing  amiss  as  I  does,  as  I  does  nothing  but  my  duty 
in  so  doing.  I'm  sure  no  man  can  say  I  ever  give  a 
gentleman,  that  was  a  gentleman,  ill  usage.  If  I  saw 
that  a  gentleman  was  a  gentleman,  I  have  taken  money 
not  to  see  him  for  ten  weeks  together. 

Honeyioood.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  sir,  it 's  a  perfect  treasure.  I  love  to 
see  a  gentleman  with  a  tender  heart.  I  don't  know, 
but  I  think  I  have  a  tender  heart  myself.  If  all  that 
I  have  lost  by  my  heart  was  put  together,  it  would 
make  a  —  but  no  matter  for  that. 

Iloneywood.  Don't  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch. 
The  ingratitude  of  the  world  can  never  deprive  us  of 
the  conscious  happiness  of  having  acted  with  human- 
ity ourselves. 

Bailiff.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It 's  better  than 
gold.  I  love  humanity.  People  may  say  that  we,  in 
our  way,  have  no  humanity  ;  but  I  '11  show  you  my 
humanity  this  moment.  There's  my  follower  here, 
little  Flanigan,  with  a  wife  and  four  children  ;  a 
guinea  or  two  would  be  more  to  him  than  twice  as 
much  to  another.  Now,  as  I  can't  show  him  any  hu- 
manity myself,  I  must  beg  leave  you  '11  do  it  for  me. 

Iloneywood.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours  is  a 
most  powerful  recommendation.  {Givi7ig  money  to 
the  folloiiier.') 

Bailiff\  Sir,  you  're  a  gentleman.  I  see  you  know 


44  THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN     [Act  III 

wliut  to  do  with  yoin-  money.  But,  to  business  ;  we  are 
to  be  with  you  here  as  your  friends,  I  suppose.  But 
set  in  ease  ^  company  conies.  —  Little  Flanigan  here,  to 
be  sure,  has  a  good  face  ;  a  very  good  face  ;  but  then, 
he  is  a  little  seedy,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practice  the 
law.   Not  well  in  clothes.  Smoke "  the  pocket-holes. 

Uoneywood.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  without 
delay. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Sir,  Miss  Kichland  is  below. 

Honey  wood.  How  unlucky  I  Detain  her  a  moment. 
AVe  must  improve,  iny  good  friend,  little  JMr.  Flani- 
gan's  appearance  first.  Here,  let  Mr.  Flanigan  have  a 
suit  of  my  clothes  —  quick —  the  brown  and  silver  — 
Do  you  hear? 

Servant.  That  your  honor  gave  away  to  the  beggiig 
gentleman  that  makes  verses,  because  it  was  as  good 
as  new. 

Iloneyioood.  The  white  and  gold  then. 

Servant.  That,  your  honor,  I  made  bold  to  sell,  be- 
cause it  was  good  for  nothing. 

Iloneywood.  AVell,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand  then. 
The  blue  and  gold.  I  believe  Mr.  Fianiuan  would  look 

best  in  blue.  [Exit  Flanigan. 

BuUiff.   Rabbit  me,^  but  little  Flanigan  will  look 

'  set  in  case  :  Originally  "  set  a  case,"  meaning  suppose,  as- 
sume.    {Standard  Dictionary.) 

2  Smoke  :  To  look  at,  contemplate,  sometimes  sneeringly. 
Compare 

With  Bulky  eye  lie  smoakM  the  patient  man. 

{A  line  in  an  uncompleted  poem  by  Goldsmith,  quoted  in  Forster, 
Life,  Book  II,  cliap.  v.)  See  also  Goldsmith's  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
Jield,  chap.  vii. 

•''  Rabbit  me  :  From  the  French  rehatlrp,  equivalent  to  Beal 
me  !   Tony  uses  the  exclamation  often  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 


Act  III]     THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  45 

well  in  anytlunj^.  Ah,  if  your  honor  knew  that  bit  of 
flesh  as  well  as  I  do,  you  'd  be  perfectly  in  love  with 
him.  There  's  not  a  prettier  scout  in  the  four  counties 
after  a  sliycock  ^  than  he.  Scents  like  a  hound  ;  sticks 
like  a  wea.sel.  He  was  master  of  the  ceremonies  to 
the  black  Queen  of  Morocco  ^  when  I  took  him  to  fol- 
low me.  (^Re-enter  l^lanigan.^  Heh,  ecod,  I  think  he 
looks  so  well  that  I  don't  care  if  I  have  a  suit  from 
tiie  same  place  for  myself. 

Iluneijivood.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming. 
Dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  beg  you  '11  give  your  friend  di- 
rectious  not  to  speak.  As  for  yourself,  I  know  you 
will  say  nothiug  without  being  directed. 

Bailiff.  Never  you  fear  me;  I'll  show  the  lady 
I  have  something  to  say  for  myself  as  well  as  an» 
other.  One  man  has  one  way  of  talking,  and  another 
man  has  another,  that 's  all  the  difference  between 
them. 

Enter  Miss  liicldund  and  Garnet. 

3Iiss  Jiicldand.  You  '11  be  surprised,  sii%  with  this 
visit.  But  you  know  I'm  yet  to  thank  you  for  choos- 
ing my  little  library. 

Honeywood.  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary,  as 
it  was  I  that  was  obliged  by  your  counnands.  Chairs 
liere.  Two  of  my  very  good  friends,  Mr.  Twitch  and 
Mr.  Flanlgan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit  without  ceremony. 

J/L^s  Richland.  (^Aside.^  Who  can  these  odd-look- 
ing men  be  ?  I  fear  it  is  as  I  was  informed.  It  must 
be  so. 

Bailiff.  (^After  a  pause.)  Pretty  weather;  very 
pretty  weather  for  the  time  of  the  year,  madam. 

•  shycock  :  AccordiiiQ^  to  Dobson,  an  evasive  rlehtor. 
^  black  Queen  of  Morocco  :  The  reference  is  to  a  comic 
figure  in  the  then  pupuhir  puppet  plays. 


46  THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN      [Act  III 

Follower.  Very  good  circuit  weather  ^  in  the  coun- 
try. 

Honeywood.  You  officers  are  generally  favorites 
among  the  ladies.  My  friends,  madam,  have  been 
upon  very  disagreeable  duty,  I  assure  you.  The  fair 
should,  in  some  measure,  recompense  the  toils  of  the 
brave. 

Miss  Richland.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve 
every  favor.  The  gentlemen  are  in  the  marine  ser- 
vice, I  presume,  sir? 

Honeywood.  Wh}^  madam,  they  do  —  occasionally 
serve  in  the  Fleet,^  madam.  A  dangerous  service  ! 

Miss  Richland.  I  'm  told  so.  And  I  own  it  has 
often  surprised  me,  that  while  we  have  had  so  many 
instances  of  bravery  there,  we  have  had  so  few  of  wit 
at  home  to  praise  it. 

Honeywood.  I  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have 
not  written  as  our  sailors  have  fought ;  but  they  have 
done  all  they  could,  and  Hawke  ^  or  Amherst  *  could 
do  no  more. 

Miss  Richland.  I  'm  quite  displeased  when  I  see  a 
fine  subject  spoiled  by  a  dull  writer.^ 

1  circuit  •weather:  Good  weather  for  riding  circuit. 

"^  the  Fleet  :  A  play  oii  words,  the  equivocation  being  be- 
tween the  navy  and  the  famous  prison  in  which  state  offenders 
and  prisoners  for  debt  were  kept. 

3  Hawke  :  Edward,  Lord  Ilawke  (1705-81),  an  English  Ad- 
miral, defeated  tlie  French  off  Btdleisle,  1759. 

^  Amherst  :  John  Amherst  (1718(?)-78)  was  appointed  ad- 
miral in  17l>5.  His  brother  Jeffrey,  Lord  Amherst,  was  a  famous 
o-eneral,  at  tiiis  time  governor  of  Virginia. 

'  a  dull  writer  :  '•  How  yon  may  relish  being  called  Holo- 
fernes  I  do  not  know;  but  I  do  not  like  at  least  to  phiy  Good- 
man Dull,"  is  Goldsmith's  most  famous  retort  to  Joluison.  The 
contempt  for  the  tedious  and  dull  was  characteristic  of  Gold- 
smith. 


Act  III]     THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  47 

IToneyvjood.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  .ifjfainst 
dull  writers,  madam.  It  is  ten  to  one  but  tlie  dullest 
writer  exceeds  the  most  rigid  French  critic  '  who  pre- 
sumes to  des])ise  him. 

l^olloiaer.  Damn  the  French,  the  parle  vous,  and 
all  that  belongs  to  them  ! 

3Iiss  Riddand.  Sir ! 

Tlonoyniood.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  honest  Mr.  Flanigan  !  A 
true  English  officer,  madam  ;  he  's  not  contented  with 
beating  the  French,  but  he  will  scold  them  too. 

3Ilss  lilchland.  Yet,  Mr.  Iloneywood,  this  does  not 
convince  me  but  that  severity  in  criticism  is  necessary. 
It  was  our  first  adopting  the  severity  of  French  taste 
that  has  brought  them  in  turn  to  taste  us. 

Badiff.  Taste  us !  By  the  Lord,  madam,  they  devour 
us!  Give  Monseers  but  a  taste,  and  I'll  be  damn'd 
but  they  come  in  for  a  bellyful  I 

Miss  lilchland.  Very  extraordinary  this! 

Follon^er.  But  very  true.  VV^ hat  makes  the  bread  ris- 
ing? the  parle  vous  that  devour  us.  What  makes  the 
mutton  fivepence  a  pound  ?  the  i)arle  vous  that  eat  it  up. 
What  makes  tlie  beer  threepence-halfpenny  a  ]iot?  — 

Iloneywood.  (Aside.}  Ah!  the  vulgar  rogues ;  all 
will  be  out !  —  Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon  my 
word,  and  quite  to  the  purpose.  They  draw  a  parallel, 
madam,  between  the  mental  taste  and  that  of  our 
senses.  We  are  injured  as  much  by  the  French  sever- 
ity in  the  one,  as  by  French  rapacity  in  the  other. 
That 's  tlieir  meaning. 

Miss  Richland.  Though  I  don't  see  the  force  of  the 

'  rigid  French  critic  :  Much  of  the  so-callefl  dnllnoss  in 
Enu'lish  litomtiu'c-  }iad  arisen  nnt  of  effort  to  satisfy  the  rig'orons 
rules  of  classic  French  criticism,  as  Miss  llichland  says  some 
lines  later. 


48  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN     [Act  III 

parallel,  yet  I  '11  own  that  we  sliould  sometimes  pardon 
books,  as  we  do  our  friends,  that  have  now  and  tlien 
agreeable  absurdities  to  recommend  them. 

Bailiff.  That's  all  my  eye!  The  King  only  can 
pardon,  as  the  law  says  ;  for,  set  in  case  — 

Honiywoud.  I  'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir  !  I  see 
the  whole  drift  of  your  argument.  Yes,  certainly,  our 
presuming  to  })ardon  any  work  is  arrogating  a  power 
that  belongs  to  another.  If  all  have  power  to  condemn, 
what  writer  can  be  free  ? 

BaiUff'.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus  can 
set  him  free  at  any  time  ;  for,  set  in  case  — 

Honeyioood.  I  'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint. 
If,  madam,  as  my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so 
careful  of  a  gentleman's  person,  sure  we  ought  to  be 
equally  careful  of  his  dearer  part,  his  fame. 

Follower.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man's  nabb'd,  you 
know  — 

Iloneyu^ood.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  forever, 
you  could  not  improve  the  last  observation.  For  my 
own  part,  I  think  it  conclusive. 

Bailiff.   As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap  — 

TIoncyiDOod.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave  in  this  instance 
to  be  ])Ositive.  For  where  is  tlie  necessity  of  censur- 
ing works  without  genius,  which  must  shortly  sink  of 
themselves?  What  is  it,  but  aiming  an  unneces- 
sary blow  against  a  victim  alieady  under  the  hands  of 
justice? 

Bailiff.  Justice  I  Oil,  by  the  elevens,^  if  j'ou  talk 
about  justice,  I  think  I  am  at  home  there  ;  for,  in  a 
course  of  law  — 

1  elevens  :  The  New  English  Dictionary  s.ays  this  term  is  of 
uncertain  oT-ip^iii.  P()ssil)ly  it  is  nn  ontii  bnserl  on  tlie  eleven  disci- 
ples.  Luke  xxiv,  3u  :  "  And  found  the  eleven  giithered  together." 


Act  III]     THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  49 

Honeyicood.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern  what 
you'd  be  at,  perfectly  ;  and  I  believe  tlie  lady  must  be 
sensible  of  the  art  wiih  wliii-h  it  is  inti-oduced.  I  sup- 
pose you  perceive  tlie  uicauiag,  uiadam,  of  his  course 
of  law  ? 

Miss  Richland.  I  protest,  sir,  T  do  not.  I  perceive 
only  that  you  answer  one  gentleman  before  lie  has 
finished,  and  the  other  before  he  has  well  begun. 

Bailiff.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I 
will  make  the  matter  out.  This  here  question  is  about 
severity,  and  justice,  and  ])ardon,  and  the  like  of  they. 
No«',  to  explain  the  thing  — 

Honcywood.  (^Asidc')  Oh!  curse  your  explanations^ 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Mr.  Leontine,  sir,  below,  desires  to  speak 
with  you  upon  earnest  business. 

Iloneywood.  That's  lucky.  (^Aside.^  Dear  madam, 
you  '11  excuse  me,  and  my  good  friends  here,  for  a 
few  minutes.  There  are  liooks,  madam,  to  amuse  you. 
Come,  gentlemen,  you  know  I  make  no  ceremony  with 
such  friends.  After  you,  sir.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if  I 
must.   But  I  know  your  natural  politeness. 

Bailiff.   Before  and  behind,  3'ou  know. 

Folloiver.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  anJ 

behind.  [Exeunt  Honeywood,  Bailiff,  and  Follower. 

Miss  Richland.   What  can  all  this  mean,  Garnet? 

Garnet.  Mean,  madam!  why,  what  should  it  mean  but 
what  Mr.  Loft}'"  sent  you  here  to  see  ?  These  ])eople  he 
calls  olf.cers.  are  officers  sure  enough  :  sheriff's  officers  ; 
bailiffs,  madam  ! 

3Iiss  Richland.  Ay,  it  is  certainl}"^  so.  Well,  though 
his  perplexities  are  far  from  giving  me  pleasure,  yet  I 
own  there  is  something  very  ridiculous  in  them,  and 
a  just  punishment  for  his  dissimulation. 


50  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN      [Act  III 

Garnet.  And  so  they  are.  Bat  I  wonder,  madam, 
that  the  lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his  debts  and 
set  him  free,  has  not  done  it  by  this  time.  He  ought 
at  least  to  have  been  liere  before  now.  But  lawyers 
are  always  more  ready  to  get  a  man  into  troubles  than 
out  of  them. 

Enter  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake  set- 
ting him  free,  I  own,  was  quite  unexpected.  It  has 
totally  unhinged  my  schemes  to  reclaim  him.  Yet  it 
gives  me  pleasure  to  find  that,  among  a  number  of 
worthless  friendships,  he  has  made  one  acquisition 
of  real  value ;  for  there  must  be  some  softer  passion 
on  her  side,  that  prompts  this  generosity.  Ha !  here 
before  me!  I'll  endeavor  to  sound  her  affections. — 
Madam,  as  I  am  the  person  that  have  had  some  de- 
mands upon  the  gentleman  of  this  house,  I  hope  you'll 
excuse  me,  if,  before  I  enlarged  him,  I  wanted  to  see 
yourself. 

JJiss  Jiichhmd.  The  precaution  was  very  unneces- 
sary, sir.  I  suppose  your  wants  were  only  such  as  my 
agent  had  power  to  satisfy. 

Sir  William.  Partly,  madam.  But  I  was  also  will- 
ing you  should  be  fully  apprized  of  the  character  of 
the  gentleman  you  intended  to  serve. 

Miss  Ricliland.  It  must  come,  sir,  with  a  very  ill 
grace  from  you.  To  censure  it,  after  what  you  have 
done,  would  look  like  malice ;  and  to  speak  favorably 
of  a  character  you  have  oppressed,  would  be  impeach- 
ing your  own.  And  sure,  his  tenderness,  his  human, 
ity,  his  universal  friendship,  may  atone  for  many 
faults. 

Sir  William.  That  friendship,  madam,  which  is 
exerted  in  too  wide  a  sphere,  becomes  totally  useless. 


Act  III]     THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  51 

Our  bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water,  disappears  when 
diffused  too  widely.  They  who  pretend  most  to  this 
universal  benevolence,  are  either  deceivers,  or  dupes: 
men  who  desire  to  cover  their  private  ill-nature  by  a 
pretended  regard  for  all ;  or  men  who,  reasoning  them- 
selves into  false  feelings,  are  more  earnest  in  pursuit 
of  splendid,  than  of  useful  virtues. 

3Iiss  liicMand.  I  am  surprised,  sir,  to  hear  one 
who  has  probably  been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of  others 
so  severe  in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  WlUiam.  Whatever  I  may  have  gained  by  folly, 
madam,  you  see  I  am  willing  to  prevent  your  losing 
by  it. 

Miss  RicMand.  Your  cares  for  me,  sir,  are  unne- 
cessary. I  always  suspect  those  services  which  are  de- 
nied where  they  are  wanted,  and  offered,  perhaps,  in 
hopes  of  a  refusal.  No,  sir,  my  directions  have  been 
given,  and  I  insist  upon  their  being  complied  with. 

Sir  JVillinm.  Thou  amiable  woman !  I  can  no 
longer  contain  the  expressions  of  my  gratitude,  my 
pleasure.  You  see  before  you  one  who  has  been  equally 
careful  of  his  interest;  one  who  has  for  some  time  been 
a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies,  and  only  punished 
in  hojDcs  to  reclaim  him,  —  his  uncle  ! 

Jliss  Richland.  Sir  William  Honeywood !  You 
amaze  me.  How  shall  I  conceal  my  confusion?  I  fear, 
sir,  you  '11  think  I  have  been  too  forward  in  my  ser- 
vices. I  confess  I  — 

Sir  William.  Don't  make  any  apologies,  madam. 
I  only  find  myself  unable  to  repay  the  obligation.  And 
yet,  I  have  been  trying  my  interest  of  late  to  serve 
you.  Having  learned,  madam,  that  you  had  some  de- 
mands upon  Government,  I  have,  though  unasked,  been 
your  solicitor  there. 


52  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN     [Act  III 

Miss  li'ichland.  Sir,  I  'm  infinitely  ol»lig-ed  to  your 
intentions.  But  my  guaidiau  has  employ c J  another 
gentleman,  who  assures  him  of  success. 

Sir  Williani.  Who,  the  important  little  man  that 
visits  here?  Trust  me,  madam,  he's  quite  eontem])ti- 
ble  among'  men  in  power,  and  utterly  unable  to  serve 
you.  Mr.  Lofty's  ])romises  are  much  better  known  to 
people  of  fashion  than  his  person,  I  assure  3'ou. 

31lss  RicJtland.  How  have  we  been  deceived  !  As 
sure  as  can  be,  here  he  comes. 

Sir  William.  Does  he?  Remember,  I'm  to  con- 
tinue unknown.  My  return  to  England  has  not  as 
yet  been  made  })ublic.  With  what  impudence  be 
enters ! 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Let  the  chariot  —  let  my  chariot  drive  off  ; 
I  '11  visit  to  his  Grace's  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland 
here  before  me !  Punctual,  as  usual,  to  the  calls  of  hu- 
manity. I  'm  very  sorry,  madam,  things  of  this  kind 
should  ha])i)on,  especially  to  a  man  I  have  shown 
everywhere,  and  carried  amongst  us  as  a  particular 
acquaintance. 

Miss  liichlaml.  I  find,  sir,  you  have  the  art  of 
making  the  misfortunes  of  others  your  own. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man 
like  me  do?  One  man  can't  do  everything;  and  then, 
J  do  so  much  in  this  way  every  da}'.  Let  me  see  ;  some- 
thing considerable  might  be  done  for  him  by  subsci-i]i- 
tion  ;  it  could  not  fail  if  1  carried  the  list.  I  '11  under- 
take to  set  down  a  brace  of  dukes,  two  dozen  lords, 
and  half  the  lower  House  at  my  own  peril. 

Sir  William.  And,  after  all,  it's  more  than  ])roba- 
ble,  sir.  he  might  lejcct  the  offer  of  such  powerful 
patronage. 


Act  III]     THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  63 

Lofty.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do?  You  know 
I  never  make  ])roinises.  In  truth,  I  once  or  twice  tried 
to  do  something"  with  him  in  tlie  way  of  business  ;  but, 
as  I  often  told  his  uncle,  Sir  William  Honey  wood,  the 
man  was  utterly  impracticable. 

Sir  William.  His  uncle!  then  that  gentleman,  I 
suppose,  is  a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Lofty.  Meaning-  me,  sir?^  Yes,  madam,  as  I  often 
said,  "  My  dear  Sir  William,  you  are  sensible  I  would 
do  anything,  as  far  as  my  poor  interest  goes,  to  serve 
your  family ;  but  what  can  bo  done  ?  there  's  no  pro- 
curing first-rate  places  for  ninth-rate  abilities." 

Miss  Iticliland.  I  have  heard  of  Sir  William  Hon- 
ey wood  ;  he  's  abroad  in  employment ;  he  confided  in 
your  judgment,  I  sup])ose. 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  madam  ;  I  believe  Sir  William 
had  some  reason  to  confide  in  my  judgment;  one  little 
reason,  perhaps. 

Miss  RicJiland.  Pray,  sir,  what  was  it? 

Lofty.  Why,  madam,  —  but  let  it  go  no  further,  — ■ 
it  was  I  procured  him  his  place. 

Sir  William.   Did  you,  sir? 

Lofty.    Either  you  or  I,  sir. 

3Iiss  RicJtland.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind,  in- 
deed. 

Lofty.  I  did  love  liim,  to  be  sure;  he  had  some 
amusing  qualities  ;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  toast-master 
to  a  club,  or  had  a  l)etter  head. 

3fiss  Riddand.  A  better  head  ? 

Lofty.  Ay,  at  a  l)ottle.  To  be  sure,  he  was  as  dull 
as  a  choice  spirit ;  ^  but,  hang  it,  he  was  grateful,  very 
grateful ;  and  gratitude  hides  a  multitude  of  faults. 

*  Meaning  me,  sir?    Lofty  rospiits  tlio  intrusion. 

2  dull  as  a  choice  spirit  :  a  satirical  allusion  to  those  who 


o4  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN     [Act  III 

Sir  William,.  He  miglit  have  reason,  perhaps.  His 
place  is  pretty  considerable,  I  'm  told. 

Lofty.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle,  among  us  men  of 
business.  The  truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill  up  a 
greater. 

Sir  William.  Dignity  of  person,  do  you  mean,  sir? 
I  'm  told  he  's  much  about  my  size  and  figure,  sir. 

Lofty.  Ay,  tall  enough  for  a  marching  regiment ; 
but  then  he  wanted  a  something  —  a  consequence  of 
form  —  a  kind  of  a — I  believe  the  lady  perceives  my 
meaning. 

Mis&  Richland .  Oh,  perfectly  ;  you  courtiers  can 
do  anything,  I  see  ! 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  but  a  mere  ex- 
change ;  we  do  greater  things  for  one  another  every 
day.  Why,  as  thus,  now:  let  me  suppose  you  the 
First  Lord  of  the  Treasury ;  you  have  an  employment 
in  you  that  I  want ;  I  have  a  place  in  me  that  you 
want ;  do  me  here,  do  you  there :  intei'est  of  both  sides, 
few  words,  flat,  done  and  done,  and  it 's  over.^ 

Sir  William.  A  thought  strikes  me.  (^Asicle.^  — 
Now  you  mention  Sir  William  Ploneywood,  madam, 
and  as  he  seems,  sir,  an  acquaintance  of  yours,  you  '11 
be  glad  to  hear  he  is  arrived  from  Italy  ;  I  had  it  from 
a  friend  who  knows  him  as  well  as  he  does  me,  and 
you  may  depend  on  my  information. 

Lofty.  {Aside.)  The  devil  he  is!  If  I  had  known 
that,  we  should  not  have  been  quite  so  well  ac- 
quainted. 

Sir  William.  He  is  certainly  returned  ;  and  as  this 

affectpfl  the  character  of  "choice  spirits"  or  "wits."  "  The  first 
cliih  I  entered  on  coming  to  town  was  that  of  the  Choice  Spirits." 
Gohisniith,  On  the  Clubs  of  London 

'  and  it 's  over  :  In  these  phrases,  Lofty  is  aff(!cting  the  easy 
jargon  of  court  life. 


Act  III]     THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  55 

gentleman  is  a  friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of  signal  ser- 
vice to  us  by  introducing  me  to  him ;  there  are  some 
papers  rehitive  to  your  affairs  that  require  despatch, 
and  his  inspection. 

3fiss  Richland.  Tiiis  gentleman,  Mr.  Lofty,  is  a 
person  eni]iloyed  in  my  affairs  :  T  know  you  '11  serve  us. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you. 
Sir  William  shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think 
proper  to  command  it. 

Sir  William.  That  would  be  quite  unnecessary. 

Lofty.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you,  then.  Call 
upon  me  —  let  me  see  —  ay,  in  two  days. 

/Sir  William.  Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be  lost 
forever. 

Lofty.  Well,  if  it  must  be  novi^,  now  let  it  be  ;  but 
damn  it,  that 's  unfortunate  ;  my  Lord  Grig's  cursed 
Pensacola  business  comes  on  this  very  hour,  and  I  'm 
entrajied  to  attend  —  another  time  — 

Sir  William.  A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will  do. 

Lofty.  You  shall  have  it ;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  a  let- 
ter is  a  very  bad  way  of  going  to  work ;  face  to  face, 
that 's  my  way. 

Sir   William.  The  letter,  sir,  will  do  quite  as  well. 

Lofty.  Zounds!  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct  me? 
direct  me  in  the  business  of  office  ?  Do  you  know  me, 
sir?  Who  am  I  ? 

3Iisf>  Richland.  Dear  Mr.  Lofty,  this  request  is  not 
so  much  his  as  mine;  if  my  commands — but  you 
despise  my  power. 

Lofty.  Delicate  creature !  your  commands  could 
even  control  a  debate  at  midnight;  to  a  power  so  con- 
stitutional, I  am  all  obedience  and  tranqiiillity.  He 
shall  have  a  letter  ;  whei-e  is  my  secretary  ?  Dubardieu! 
And  yet,  I  protest  I  don't  like  this  way  of  doing  busi- 


56  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN     [Act  III 

ness.  I  think  if  I  spoke  first  to  Sir  William  —  But  you 

will  havs  it  so.  [Exit  with  Miss  Richland. 

Sir  William.  (^AloncS)  Ha,  ha,  ha  I  This  too  is 
one  of  my  nephew's  hopeful  associates.  Oh  vanity, 
thou  constant  deceiver,  how  do  all  thy  efforts  to  exalt 
serve  but  to  sink  us  !  Tliy  false  colorings,  like  those 
euiployed  to  heighten  beauty,  only  seem  to  mend  that 
bloom  which  they  contribute  to  destroy.  I  'ni  not  dis- 
pleased at  this  interview  ;  exposing  this  fellow's  impu- 
cience  to  the  contempt  it  deserves  may  be  of  use  to 
my  design  ;  at  least,  if  he  can  reflect,  it  will  be  of  use 
to  himself,  (^Enter  Jarvis.^  How  now,  Jarvis,  where 's 
your  master,  my  nephew  ? 

Jarvis.  At  his  wit's  end,  I  believe;  he's  scarce  got- 
ten out  of  one  sci'ape,  but  he  's  running  his  head  into 
another. 

Sir  WiUtajn.   How  so  ? 

Jarvis.  The  house  has  but  just  been  cleared  of  the 
bailiffs,  and  now  he  's  again  engaging,  tooth  and  nail, 
in  assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to  patch  up  a  clandes- 
tine match  with  the  young  lady  tliat  passes  in  the 
house  for  his  sister  ! 

Sir   William.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  anybody  but  himself.  The  young 
couple,  it  seems,  are  just  setting  out  for  Scotland, 
and  he  supjilies  them  with  money  for  the  journey. 

Sir  William.  Money  !  how  is  he  able  to  supply 
others,  who  lias  scarce  any  for  himself? 

Jarvis.  Why,  there  it  is;  he  has  no  money,  tliat's 
true;  but  then,  as  he  never  said  No  to  any  request  in 
his  life,  he  has  given  them  a  bill,  drawn  by  a  friend  of 
his  upon  a  merchant  in  the  city,  w^hich  I  am  to  get 
changed ;  for  you  must  know  that  I  am  to  go  with  them 
to  Scotland  myself. 


Act  IV]      THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  57 

/Sir   W'dHain.  How! 

Jarvis.  It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  obliged  to 
take  a  tlit'ferent  roail  from  Iiis  mistress,  as  he  is  to  call 
upon  an  iiiiele  of  his  that  lives  out  of  the  way,  in  order 
to  i)re|)are  a  place  for  their  reception  when  they  return ; 
so  they  have  borrowed  nie  from  my  master,  as  the 
properest  person  to  attend  the  young  lady  down. 

Sir  William.  To  the  land  of  matrimony !  A  pleas- 
ant journey,  Jarvis. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  but  I  'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues 
on  't. 

Sir  William.  AVell,  it  may  be  shorter,  and  less 
fatiguing  than  you  imagine.  I  know  but  too  much  of 
the  young  lady's  family  and  connections,  whom  I  have 
seen  abroad.  I  have  also  discovered  that  Miss  Rich- 
land is  not  indifferent  to  my  thoughtless  nej)hew;  and 
will  endeavoi",  though  I  fear  in  vain,  to  establish  that 
connection.  But  come,  the  letter  I  wait  for  must  be 
almost  finished ;  I  '11  let  you  further  into  my  inten- 
tions in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt 


ACT   THE   FOURTH 

Scene,  Croakkr's  house. 

Lofty. 

Lofty.  Well,  sure  the  devil 's  in  me  of  late,  for  run- 
ning my  head  into  such  defiles,  as  nothing  but  a  genius 
bke  my  own  could  draw  me  f  i-om.  I  was  formerly  con- 
tented to  husband  out  my  places  and  pensions  with 
some  degree  of  friagality  ;  but,  curse  it,  of  late  I  have 
given  away  the  whole  Court  Register  in  less  time  thun 
they  could   2)rint  the  title-page;   yet,   hang  it,   why 


58  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN       [Act  IV 

scruple  a  lie  or  two  to  come  at  a  fine  girl,  when  I 
every  day  tell  a  thousand  for  nothing?  Ha  !  Honey- 
wood  here  before  nie.  Could  Miss  Richland  have  set 
him  at  liberty?  (^Enter  Honeywood.)  Mr.  Honey- 
wood,  I  'm  glad  to  see  you  abroad  again.  I  find  my 
concurrence  was  not  necessary  in  your  unfortunate 
affairs.  I  had  })ut  things  in  a  train  to  do  your  business  ; 
but  it  is  not  for  me  to  say  what  I  intended  doing. 

Honeywood.  It  was  unfortunate,  indeed,  sir.  But 
what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  while  you  seem  to 
be  acquainted  with  my  misfoi'tune,  I  myself  continue 
still  a  stranger  to  my  benefactor. 

Lofty'  How !  not  know  the  friend  that  served 
you? 

Honey  wood.  Can't  get  at  the  person. 

Lofty.  Inquire. 

Hoiieywvod.  I  have  ;  but  all  I  can  learn  is  that  he 
chooses  to  remain  concealed,  and  that  all  inquiry  must 
be  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Must  be  fruitless? 

Honeywood.  Absolutely  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Sure  of  that? 

Honeywood.  Very  sure. 

Lofty.  Then  I  '11  be  damn'd  if  you  shall  ever  know 
it  from  me. 

Honeywood.  How,  sir  ? 

Lofty.  I  suppose  now,  Mr.  Honeywood,  you  think 
my  rent-roll  very  considerable,  and  that  I  have  vast 
sums  of  money  to  throw  away ;  I  know  you  do.  The 
world,  to  be  sure,  says  such  things  of  me. 

Honeywood.  The  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no 
stranger  to  your  generosit}'.  But  where  does  this 
tend? 

Lofty.    To   nothing ;    nothing  in  the   world.    The 


Act  IV]      THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  59 

town,  to  be  sure,  when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as  rae 
the  subject  of  conversation,  has  asserted  that  I  never 
yet  patronized  a  man  of  merit. 

Iloneywood.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  con- 
trary, even  from  yourself. 

Lofty.  Yes,  Honeywood,  and  there  are  instances  to 
the  contrary,  that  you  shall  never  hear  from  myself. 

Iloneywood.  Ha,  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you  but 
one  question. 

Lofty.  Sir,  ask  me  no  questions  ;  I  say,  sir,  ask  me 
no  questions ;  I  '11  be  damu'd  if  I  answer  them ! 

Iloneyioood.  I  will  ask  no  further.  My  friend !  my 
benefactor!  it  is,  it  must  be  here,  that  I  am  indebted 
for  freedom,  for  honor.  Yes,  thou  worthiest  of  men, 
from  the  beginning  I  suspected  it,  but  was  afraid 
to  return  thanks ;  which,  if  undeserved,  might  seem 
reproaches. 

Lofty.  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  all  this,  Mr. 
Iloneywood  !  You  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I  do  as- 
sure you,  sir  —  Blood,  sir,  can't  a  man  be  permitted  to 
enjoy  the  luxury  of  his  own  feelings,  without  all  this 
parade? 

Honeywood.  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an 
action  that  adds  to  your  honor.  Your  looks,  your  air, 
your  manner,  all  confess  it. 

Lofty.  Confess  it,  sir !  Torture  itself,  sir,  shall 
never  bring  me  to  confess  it.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I  havQ 
admitted  you  upon  terms  of  friendship.  Don't  let  us 
fall  out ;  make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be  buried  in 
oblivion.  You  know  I  hate  ostentation  ;  you  know 
I  do.  Come,  come,  Honeywood,  you  know  I  always 
loved  to  be  a  friend,  and  not  a  patron.  I  beg  this  may 
make  no  kind  of  distance  between  us.  Come,  come, 
you  and  I  must  be  more  familiar  —  indeed  we  must. 


60  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN      [Act  IV 

HoneyiDOod.  Heavens!  Can  I  ever  repay  such 
friendship  !  Is  there  any  way  !  —  Thou  best  of  men, 
can  I  ever  return  the  obh'gation  ? 

Lofty.  A  bagatelle,^  a  mere  bagatelle !  But  I  see 
your  heart  is  laboring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall  be 
grateful.    It  would  be  cruel  to  disap]ioint  you. 

Honey  wood.  How  ?  teach  nie  the  manner.  Is  there 
any  way  ? 

Lofty.  From  this  moment  you  're  mine.  Yes^  my 
friend,  you  shall  know  it  —  I  'm  in  love. 

Honey  wood.  And  can  I  assist  you  ? 

Lofty.   Nobody  so  well. 

Honeywood.  In  what  manner?  I'm  all  impatience. 

Lofty.  You  shall  mahe  love  for  me. 

Honeywood.  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  your 
favor  ? 

Lofty.  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  great  inter- 
est, I  assure  you.    Miss  Richland. 

Honeywood.  Miss  Kichland ! 

Lofty.  Yes,  Miss  Kichland.  She  has  struck  the 
blow  up  to  the  hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter! 

Honeywood.  Heavens !  was  ever  anything  more 
unfortunate?  It  is  too  much  to  be  endured. 

Lofty.  Unfortunate,  indeed  !  And  yet  I  can  en- 
dure it,  till  you  have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for  me. 
Between  ourselves,  I  think  she  likes  me.  I  'm  not  apt 
to  boast,  but  I  think  she  does. 

Honeywood.  Indeed !  But  do  you  know  the  per- 
son you  apply  to? 

Lofty.  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine: 
that 's  enough.  To  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the  suc- 

•  bagatelle :  A  trifle,  a  tliiiij^  of  do  imjiortance.  Dr.  JoTinson 
held  that  it  was  not  uuturalized  at  the  time  Guldsmitli  used  the 
word.    (Johnson's  Dictionary.) 


Act  IV]      THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  61 

cess  of  my  passion.  I  '11  say  no  moi-e,  let  friendship  do 
the  rest.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  if  at  any  time  my 
little  interest  can  be  of  service  —  bnt,  hang  it,  I'll 
make  no  promises  —  you  know  my  interest  is  yours 
at  any  time.  No  apologies,  my  friend,  I  '11  not  be  an- 
swered ;  it  shall  be  so.  [Exit. 
Ilonojwood.  Open,  generous,  unsuspecting  man ! 
He  little  thinks  that  I  love  her  too;  and  with  such  an 
ardent  ])assion  !  —  But  then  it  was  ever  but  a  vain 
and  hopeless  one  ;  my  torment,  my  persecution!  What 
shall  I  do?  Love,  friendship;  a  hopeless  passion,  a 
deserving  friend  I  Love,  that  has  been  my  tormentor; 
a  friend,  that  has,  perhaps,  distressed  himself  to  serve 
me.  It  shall  be  so.  Yes,  I  will  discard  the  fondling 
hope  from  my  bosom,  and  exert  all  my  influence  in  his 
favor.  And  yet  to  see  her  in  the  possession  of  another! 
—  Insupportable!  But  then  to  betray  a  generous, 
trusting  friend!  —  Worse,  worse  !  Yes,  I 'm  resolved. 
Let  me  but  be  the  instrument  of  their  happiness,  and 
then  quit  a  country  where  I  must  forever  despair  of 
finding  my  own.                                                               {Exit. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Garnet,  who  carries  a  milliner''s  box. 

Olivia.  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  over. 
No  news  of  Jarvis  yet?  I  believe  the  old  peevish  crea- 
ture delays  ])urely  to  vex  me. 

Garnet.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear  him 
say  a  little  snubbing  before  marriage  would  teach  you 
to  bear  it  the  better  afterwards. 

Olivia.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  ha(l 
only  to  get  a  bill  changed  in  the  city  !  How  provok- 
ing! 

Garnet.  I'll  lay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  tliat  had 
twice  as  much  to  do,  is  setting  off  by  this  time  from 
his  inn  ;  and  here  you  are  left  behind. 


62  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN      [Act  IV 

Olhna.  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming, 
however.  Are  you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing, 
Garnet  ? 

Garnet.  Not  a  stick,  madam ;  all 's  here.  Yet  I 
wish  you  could  take  the  white  and  silver  to  be  married 
in.  It's  the  worst  luck  in  the  world  in  anything  but 
white.  I  knew  one  Bett  Stubbs,  of  our  town,  that  was 
married  in  red  ;  and  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs,  the  bride- 
groom and  she  had  a  miff  before  morning. 

Olivia.  No  matter.  I  'm  all  imjjatience  till  we  are 
out  of  the  house. 

Garnet.  Bless  me,  madam,  I  had  almost  forgot  the 
wedding  ring!  The  sweet  little  thing.  I  don't  think 
it  would  go  on  my  little  finger.  And  what  if  I  ])ut  in 
a  gentleman's  nightcap,  in  case  of  necessity,  madam? 
• —  But  here  's  Jarvis. 

Enter  Jarvis. 

Olivia.  O  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last?  We  have 
been  ready  this  half  hour.  Now  let 's  be  going.  Let 
us  fly ! 

Jarvis.  Ay,  to  Jericho  !  for  we  shall  have  no  going 
to  Scotland  this  bout,  I  fancy. 

Olivia.  How!  what's  the  matter? 

Jarvis.  Money,  money  is  tlie  matter,  madam.  We 
have  got  no  money.  What  the  plague  do  you  send  me 
of  your  fool's  errand  for?  My  master's  bill  upon  the 
city  is  not  worth  a  rush.  Here  it  is ;  Mrs.  Garnet  may 
pin  up  her  hair  with  it. 

Olivia.  Undone!  How  could  Honey  wood  serve  us 
so?   What  shall  we  do?  C:in't  we  go  without  it? 

Jarvis.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money  !  To  Scot- 
land without  money!  Lord,  how  some  peojile  under- 
stand geography  !  We  might  as  well  set  sail  for  Pata- 
gonia upon  a  cork-jacket. 


Act  IV]      THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN  63 

Olivia.  Such  a  disappointment!  What  a  base,  in- 
sincere man  was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this  man- 
ner.   Is  this  his  good-nature? 

Jarvis.  Nay,  don't  talk  ill  of  my  master,  niadam. 
I  won't  bear  to  hear  anybody  talk  ill  of  him  but  my- 
self. 

Garnet.  Bless  us!  now  I  think  on 't,  madam,  you 
need  not  be  under  any  uneasiness :  I  saw  Mr.  Leon- 
tine  receive  forty  guineas  from  his  father  just  before 
he  set  out,  and  he  can't  yet  have  left  the  inn.  A  short 
letter  will  reach  him  there. 

Olivia.  Well  remembered,  Garnet ;  I  '11  write  im- 
mediately. How's  this!  Bless  me,  my  hand  trembles 
so,  I  can't  write  a  word.  Do  you  wiite.  Garnet ;  and, 
Mpon  second  thought,  it  will  be  better  from  you. 

Garnet.  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but 
poorly.  I  never  was  cute  ^  at  my  larning.  But  I  '11  do 
what  I  can  to  please  you.  Let  me  see.  All  out  of  my 
own  head,  I  suppose  ? 

Olioia.  Whatever  you  please. 

Garnet.  (  Writing.^  "  Muster  Croaker  " —  Twenty 
guineas,  madam  ? 

Olivia.  Ay,  twenty  will  do. 

Garnet.  "  At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  called  for.  — 
Expedition  —  Will  be  blown  up — All  of  a  flame  — 
Quick,  despatch  —  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love."  —  I 
conclude  it  madam,  with  Cupid  ;  I  love  to  see  a  love 
letter  end  like  poetiy. 

Olivia.  Well,  well,  what  you  ])lease,  anything.  But 
how  shall  we  send  it  ?  I  can  trust  none  of  the  servants 
of  this  family. 

Garnet.  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honeywood's  butler  is 

'  cute:  Sharp,  clever.  By  Juliiisoii  held  to  be  a  vulgar  con- 
traction used  only  in  North  p]n<^l:ind;  it  was  often  printed  "  'cute." 


64  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN      [Act  IV 

in  tlie  next  room ;  he  's  a  dear,  sweet  man ;  he  '11  do 
Unything  for  me. 

Jarvis.  He!  the  (log,  he '11  certainly  commit  some 
blunder.  He's  drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a  day. 

Olivia.  No  matter.  Fly,  Garnet  ;  anybody  we  can 
trust  will  do.  (^Exit  Garnet.^  Well,  Jarvis,  now  we 
can  have  nothing  more  to  interrupt  us.  You  may  take 
up  the  things,  and  earr}'-  them  on  to  the  inn.  Have 
you  no  hands,  Jarvis? 

Jarvis.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady.  You  that  are 
going  to  be  married  think  things  can  never  be  done 
too  fast;  but  we  that  are  old,  and  know  what  we  are 
about,  must  elope  methodically,  madam. 

Olivia.  Well,  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  to  be 
done  over  again  — 

Jarvis.  My  life  for  it,  you  would  do  them  ten  times 
over  — 

Olivia.  Why  will  you  talk  so?  If  you  knew  how 
unhappy  they  make  me  — 

Jarvis.  Vei-y  unhappy,  no  doubt ;  I  was  once  just 
as  unhappy  when  I  was  going  to  be  married  myself. 
I  '11  tell  you  a  story  about  that  — 

Olivia.  A  stox-y !  when  I  'm  all  impatience  to  be 
away.  Was  there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature  !  — 

Jarvis.  Well,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why  we 
will  march,  that 's  all.  Though,  odds-bohs,  we  have 
still  forgot  one  thing  we  should  never  travel  without — 
a  case  of  good  razors,  and  a  box  of  shaving  powder. 
But  no  matter,  I  believe  we  shall  be  prett}^  well  shaved 
by  the  way.  [Going. 

Enter  Garnet. 

Garnet.  Undone,  undone,  madam  !  Ah,  Mr.  Jarvis, 
you  said  right  enough.  As  sure  as  death,  Mr.  Honey- 
wood's  rogue  of  a  drunken  butler  dropped  the  letter 


Act  IV]      THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  65 

before  he  went  ten  yards  from  tlie  tloor.  There  's  ohl 
Croaker  has  just  pieked  it  up,  and  is  this  moiueiW 
readijij^  it  to  himself  iu  the  hali  I 

Olivia.   Unfortunate !  we  shall  be  discovered. 

Garnet.  No,  madam  ;  don't  be  uueasy,  he  cau  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure,  he  looks  as  if 
lie  was  broke  loose  from  Bedlam  about  it,  but  he  can't 
find  what  it  means  for  all  that.  Oh  lud,  he  is  coming 
this  way  all  in  the  horrors. 

Olivia.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  iustaut,  for 
fear  he  should  ask  farther  questions.  In  the  mean  time, 
Garnet,  do  you  write  and  send  off  just  such  anothei-. 

\_Exeaiit. 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaher.  Death  and  destruction!  Are  all  the  hor- 
rors of  air,  fire,  and  water  to  be  levelled  only  at  me? 
Am  I  only  to  be  singled  out  for  (gunpowder  plots,  com- 
bustibles, and  conflagration?  Here  it  is — an  incen- 
diary letter  dropped  at  my  door.  To  Muster  Croaker., 
these  with  npeed.  Ay,  ay,  ])lain  enough  the  dire(;tion  ; 
ail  in  the  genuine  incendiary  S])elling,  and  as  cramj) 
as  the  devil.  With  speed.  Oh,  confound  your  s])eed  ! 
But  let  me  read  it  once  more.  (^Reads. )  JShistcr 
Croaker.,  as  sone  as  yoeio  see  this  leve  twenty  gunnes 
at  the  bar  of  the  Talhoot  tell  caled  for  or  yoxoe  and 
yower  e.vperetion  will  be  al  blown  vp.  Ah,  but  too 
plain!  Blood  and  gunpowder  in  every  line  of  it.  Blown 
up!  murderous  dog!  All  blown  up!  Heavens!  wiiat 
have  I  and  my  poor  family  done,  to  be  all  blown  up '! 
(^Reads.)  Our  pockets  are  low,  and  money  we  must 
have.  Ay,  there  's  the  reason  ;  they  '11  blow  us  up,  be- 
cause they  have  got  low  pockets.  (^Reads.}  It  is  but 
a  short  time  you  have  to  consider ;  for  if  this  takes 
im.vd,.  the  hnnixp  v^iJl  qiiickhi  be  all  of  a  flame.    In- 


66  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN      [Act  IV 

human  monsters!  blow  us  up,  and  then  burn  us!  The 
earthquake  at  Lisbon  was  but  a  bonfire  to  it !  (^Reads.^ 
Make  quick  despatch,  and  so  no  7nore  at  2)rcsent.  But 
may  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love,  go  with  you  wher- 
ever you  go.  The  little  god  of  love !  Cupid,  the  little 
god  of  love,  go  with  me !  Go  you  to  the  devil,  you  and 
your  little  Cupid  together.  I  'm  so  frightened,  I  scarce 
know  whether  I  sit,  stand,  or  go.  Perhaps  this  mo- 
ment I  'm  treading  on  lighted  matches,  blazing  brim- 
stone, and  barrels  of  gunpowder.  They  are  preparing 
to  blow  me  up  into  the  clouds.  Murder !  We  shall 
be  all  burnt  in  our  beds;  we  shall  be  all  burnt  in  our 
beds! 

Enter  Miss  Hichland. 

Miss  Richland.  Lord,  sir,  what's  the  matter? 

Croaker.  Murder 's  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all 
blown  up  in  our  beds  before  morniug ! 

Miss  Richland.  I  hope  not,  sir. 

Croaker.  What  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam, 
when  I  have  a  certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand  ?  Will 
nothing  alarm  my  family?  Sleeping  and  eating,  sleep- 
ing and  eating,  is  the  only  work  from  morning  till 
night  in  my  house.  My  insensible  crew  could  sleep 
though  rocked  by  an  earthquake,  and  fry  beef-steaks 
at  a  volcano ! 

Miss  Richland.  But,  sir,  you  have  alarmed  them  so 
often  already  ;  we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes,  fam- 
ines, plagues,  and  mad  dogs,  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end.  You  remember,  sir,  it  is  not  above  a  month  ago, 
you  assured  us  of  a  conspiracy  among  the  bakers,  to 
poison  us  in  our  bread  ;  and  so  kept  the  whole  family 
a  week  upon  potatoes. 

Croaker.  And  potatoes  were  too  good  for  them. 
But  why  do  I  stand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when  1 


ActIV]      the   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  67 

should  he  facing  the  enemy  without?  Here,  John, 
Nicodemus,  search  the  house.  Look  into  the  celhirs, 
to  see  if  there  be  any  combustibles  below:  and  above, 
in  the  apartments,  that  no  matches  be  thrown  in  at  the 
windows.  Let  all  the  fires  be  put  out,  and  let  tlie  engine 
be  drawn  out  in  the  yard,  to  phiy  upon  the  house  in 
case  of  necessity.  [Exit. 

Miss  liicJdand.  (^Alone.^  What  can  he  mean  by  all 
this  ?  Yet  why  should  I  inquire,  when  he  alarms  us  in 
this  manner  almost  every  day.  But  Honey  wood  has 
desired  an  interview  with  me  in  private.  What  can 
he  mean?  or  rather,  what  means  this  palpitation  at 
his  approach  ?  It  is  the  first  time  he  ever  showed  any- 
thing in  his  conduct  that  seemed  particular.  Sure,  he 
cannot  mean  to — but  he's  liere. 

Enter  Honey  wood. 

Honeywood.  I  presiuned  to  solicit  this  interview, 
madam,  before  I  left  town,  to  be  permitted  — 

Miss  Hichland.  Indeed!  leaving  town,  sir? 

Honeywood.  Yes,  madam;  perhaps  the  kingdom.  I 
have  presumed,  I  say,  to  desire  the  favor  of  this  inter- 
view, —  in  order  to  disclose  something  which  our  long 
friendship  prompts.  And  yet  my  fears  — 

Miss  Ricldand.  His  fears  !  What  are  his  fears  to 
mine !  (^Aside.')  We  have,  indeed,  been  long  ac- 
quainted, sir  ;  very  long.  If  I  remember,  our  first  meet- 
ing was  at  the  French  ambassador's.  Do  you  recollect 
how  you  were  pleased  to  rally  me  upon  my  complexion 
there  ? 

Iloneyv^ood.  Perfectly,  madam  ;  I  presumed  to  re- 
prove you  for  painting  ;  ^  but  your  warmer  blushes  soon 

'  reprove  you  for  painting  :  In  Jenn  Pierre  Grosley's  Tour 
to  London  (1765)  it  is  said  that  the  English  women  used  roug^ 
less  than  the  French. 


68  THE  GOOD-NATURED   MAN      [A.ctIY 

convinced  the  company  that  the  coloring  was  all  from 
nature. 

3Iiss  Richland.  And  yet  you  only  meant  it,  in  your 
good-natured  way,  to  make  aie  pay  a  compliment  to 
myself.  In  the  same  manner  you  danced  that  night 
with  the  most  awkward  woman  in  company,  because 
you  saw  nobody  else  would  take  her  out. 

Honeywood.  Yes  ;  and  was  rewarded  the  next  night 
by  dancing  with  the  finest  woman  iu  company,  whom 
everybody  wished  to  take  out. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  sir,  if  you  thought  so  then, 
I  fear  your  judgment  has  since  corrected  the  errors  of 
a  first  impression.  We  generally  show  to  most  advan- 
tage at  first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor  tradesmen,  that 
put  all  their  best  goods  to  be  seen  at  the  windows. 

Jloneytoood.  The  first  impression,  madam,  did  in- 
deed deceive  me.  I  expected  to  find  a  woman  with  all 
the  faults  of  conscious,  flattered  beauty.  I  expected  to 
find  her  vain  and  insolent.  But  every  day  has  since 
taught  me  that  it  is  possible  to  possess  sense  without 
pride,  and  beauty  without  affectation. 

Miss  Richland.  This,  sir,  is  a  style  very  unusual 
with  Mr.  Honeywood  ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
why  he  thus  attempts  to  increase  that  vanity,  which  his 
own  lessons  have  taught  me  to  despise. 

Iloneyioood.  I  ask  pardon,  madam.  Yet,  from  our 
long  friendship,  I  ]U'esumed  I  might  have  some  right 
to  offer,  without  offence,  what  3'ou  may  I'efuse  without 
offending. 

3Iiss  Richland.  Sir !  I  beg  you  'd  reflect ;  though  I 
fear  I  shall  scarce  have  any  power  to  refuse  a  request 
of  yours,  yet  you  may  be  precipitate :  consider,  sir. 

Honeywood.  I  own  my  rashness ;  but  as  I  plead 
the  cause  of  friendship,  of  one  who  loves — don't  be 


Act  IV]      THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  69 

alarmed,  madam  —  who  loves  you  with  the  most  ar- 
dent passion  ;  whose  whole  happiness  is  placed  in 
yon  — 

3Iiss  lik'hJand.  I  fear,  sir,  I  sliall  never  find  whom 
you  mean,  by  this  description  of  hiui. 

Honey icood.  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly  points 
him  out;  though  he  should  be  too  humble  himself  to 
uige  his  i)retensious,  or  you  too  modest  to  undeistand 
them. 

3Iiss  UlcJdand.  Well,  it  would  be  affectation  any 
longer  to  pretend  ignorance  ;  and,  I  will  own,  sir,  I 
liave  long  been  prejudiced  in  his  favor.  It  was  but 
natural  to  wish  to  make  his  heart  mine,  as  he  seemed 
hiuiself  ignoi-aiit  of  its  value. 

Iloneyivo jd.  I  see  she  always  loved  him.  (ylsicZe.) 
I  find,  madc.in,  you're  already  sensible  of  his  worth, 
his  passion.  How  happy  is  m}''  friend  to  be  the  favorite 
of  one  with  sucii  sense  to  distinguish  merit,  and  such 
beauty  to  reward  it ! 

31iss  Ricldand.  Your  friend,  sir  !  what  friend  ? 

Honeyioood.  My  best  friend  —  my  friend  Mr.  Lofty, 
madam. 

3Iiss  Ricldand.  He,  sir  ! 

Honeywood.  Yes,  he,  madam.  He  is,  indeed,  what 
your  warmest  wishes  might  have  formed  him.  And 
to  his  other  qualities  he  adds  that  of  the  most  pas- 
sionate  regard  for  you. 

3Iiss  Ricldand.  Amazement!  —  No  more  of  this,  I 
beg  you,  sir. 

Honeyioood.  I  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and 
know  how  to  interpret  it.  And  since  I  so  plainly  read 
the  language  of  your  heart,  shall  I  make  my  friend 
hapjiy  by  communicating  your  sentiments? 

3Jiss  Ricldand.  Bv  no  means. 


70  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN      [Act  IV 

Honeyioood.  Excuse  me,  I  must ;  I  know  you  de- 
sire it. 

Miss  Ricliland.  Mi*.  Honeywood,  let  me  tell  you 
that  you  wrong"  my  sentiments  and  yourself.  When  I 
first  ajjplied  to  your  friendship,  1  expected  advice  and 
assistance ;  but  now,  sir,  1  see  that  it  is  vain  to  expect 
happiness  from  hiui  who  has  been  so  bad  an  economist 
of  his  own  ;  and  that  I  must  disclaim  his  friendship 
who  ceases  to  be  a  friend  to  himself.  [Exit. 

Honeyivood.  How  is  this?  she  has  confessed  she 
loved  him,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  displeasure. 
Can  I  have  done  anything  to  reproach  myself  with? 
No ;  I  believe  not ;  yet,  after  all,  these  things  should 
not  be  done  by  a  third  person  ;  I  should  have  spared 
her  confusion.  My  friendship  carried  me  a  little  too  far. 

Enter  Croaker,  with  the.  letter  iri  his  hand,  and  Mrs.  Croaker. 

3Irs.  Croaker.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  And  so,  my  dear,  it 's 
your  supreme  wish  that  I  should  be  quite  wretched 
upon  this  occasion  ?  Ha,  ha  I 

Croaker.  (^Mimicking. ~)  Ha,  ha,  ha!  And  so,  my 
dear,  it 's  your  supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  no  better 
consolation  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Positively,  my  dear,  what  is  this  in- 
cendiary stuff  and  trumpery  to  me?  Our  house  may 
travel  through  the  air  like  the  house  of  Loretto,'  for 
aught  I  care,  if  I  'm  to  be  miserable  in  it. 

Croaker.  Would  to  heaven  it  were  converted  into 
an  house  of  correction  for  your  benefit.  Have  we  not 
everything  to  alarm  us  ?  Perhaps  this  very  moment  the 
tragedy  is  beginning. 

'  house  of  Loretto  :  The  Santa  Casa,  or  Holj'  House,  of  Lo- 
reto,  Italy,  is  reputed  to  be  the  liotise  in  which  tlie  Virgin  lived 
in  Nazareth.  It  was  said  to  have  been  nilraculously  moved  at  the 
time  of  the  Crusades. 


A.CT  IV]      THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  71 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress  till 
the  rising"  of  the  curtain,  or  give  them  the  money  they 
want,  and  have  done  with  them. 

Croaher.  Give  them  my  money!  —  And  pray,  what 
right  have  they  to  my  money? 

3Irs.  Croaker.  And  pray,  what  right  then  have  you 
to  my  good  humor? 

Croaker.  And  so  your  good  humor  advises  me  t) 
part  with  my  money?  Why,  then,  to  tell  your  good 
humor  a  piece  of  my  mind,  I  'd  sooner  part  with  my 
wife!  Here's  Mr.  Honey  wood;  see  what  he'll  say 
to  it.  My  dear  Honeywood,  look  at  this  incendiary 
letter  dropped  at  my  door.  It  will  freeze  you  with 
terror;  and  yet  lovey  here  can  read  it  —  can  read  it, 
and  laugh ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Croaker.  If  he  does,  I  '11  suffer  to  be  hanged  the 
next  minute  in  the  rogue's  ])lace,  that 's  all. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Speak,  Mr.  Honeywood ;  is  there 
anything  more  foolish  than  my  husband's  fright  upon 
this  occasion  ? 

Honeywood.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide, 
madam;  but,  doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors 
now  will  but  invite  them  to  renew  their  villany  an- 
other timec 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  told  you,  he  'd  be  of  my  opinion. 

Croaker.  How,  sir  !  Do  you  maintain  that  I  should 
lie  down  under  sucli  an  injury,  and  show,  neither  by 
:ny  tears  nor  complaints,  that  I  have  something  of  the 
sj)irit  of  a  man  in  me? 

Iloiicyirood.  Pardon  me,  sir.  You  ought  to  make 
tlie  loudest  complaints,  if  you  desire  redress.  The 
surest  way  to  have  redress  is  to  be  earnest  in  the  pur- 
suit of  it. 


72  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN      [Act  IV 

Croaher.  Ay,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Bat  Jon't  vou  think  that  lauohinjr 
off  our  fears  is  the  best  way  ? 

Iloneyioood.  What  is  the  best,  niatlani,  few  can  say ; 
but  I  '11  maintain  it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croaher.  But  we  're  talking-  of  the  best.  Surel}'  the 
best  way  is  to  face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and  net  wait 
till  he  plunders  us  in  our  very  bed-chamber. 

Uoneywood.  Why,  sir,  as  to  the  best,  that  —  that's 
a  very  wise  way  too. 

Mrs.  Croaher.  But  can  anything  be  more  absurd, 
than  to  double  onr  distresses  by  our  a])prehensions, 
and  put  it  in  the  power  of  every  low  fellow,  that  can 
scrawl  ten  words  of  wretched  spelling,  to  torment  us  ? 

Uoneywood.    Without  doubt,  nothing  more  absurd. 

Croaher.  How !  would  it  not  be  more  absurd  to 
despise  the  rattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake  ? 

Uoneywood.   Without  doubt,  perfectl}^  absurd. 

Croaher.  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion  ? 

HoneyiDOod.  Entirely. 

Mrs.  Croaher.  And  you  reject  mine? 

Honeyv;ood.  Heavens  forbid,  madam!  No,  sure, 
no  reasoning  can  be  more  just  than  yours.  We  ought 
certainly  to  despise  malice,  if  we  cannot  oppose  it,  and 
not  make  the  incendiary's  pen  as  fatal  to  our  repose 
as  the  highwayujan's  pistol. 

Mrs.  Croaher.    Oh,  then  you  thiidc  I  'ra  quite  right? 

Honeytaood.  Perfectly  right. 

Croaker.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can't  be  both 
right.  I  ought  to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad.  My 
hat  must  be  <ui  my  head,  or  my  hat  must  be  off. 

Mrs.  Croaher.  Certainly,  in  two  opposite  opinions, 
if  one  be  perfectly  reasonable,  the  other  can't  be  per- 
fectly right. 


Act  IV]      THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  73 

Iloncyv-iood.  And  why  may  not  both  be  I'ight, 
miidaiu?  Mr.  Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress, 
and  yon  in  waiting  the  event  with  good-hnnior  ?  Pray, 
let  me  see  the  letter  again.  I  have  it.  This  letter 
requires  twenty  guineas  to  be  left  at  the  bar  of  the 
Talbot  Inn.  If  it  be  indeed  an  incendiary  letter,  wh:;t 
it  you  and  I,  sir,  go  there  ;  and  when  the  writer  comes 
to  be  paid  his  exjiected  booty,  seize  him? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  it 's  the  very  thing  ;  the 
veiy  thing.  While  I  walk  by  the  door,  yon  shall  jjlant 
yourself  in  ambush  near  the  bar  ;  burst  out  upon  the 
miscreant  like  a  masked  battery  ;  extort  a  confession 
at  once,  and  so  hang  him  up  by  surprise. 

Honeytoood.  Yes ;  but  I  would  not  choose  to  ex- 
ercise too  much  severity.  It  is  my  maxim,  sir,  that 
crinies  generally  punish  themselves. 

Croaher.  {Ironically.^  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid 
him  a  little,  I  suppose  ? 

Ilojwyioood.    Ay,  but  not  punish  h'uv  too  rigidly. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own  benevo- 
lence. 

Honcywood.  Well,  I  do;  but  remewber  that  uni- 
versal benevolence  is  the  first  law  of  naf;Mre. 

\^Exeunt  Haneywood  cind  Mrs.  Croaks, 

Croaker.  Yes;  and  my  universal  beneroJence  will 
hang  the  dog,  if  he  had  as  many  necks  as  v  hydra! 


ACT  THE  FIFTH 

Scene,  An  inn. 
Enter  Olivia  and  Jarvis. 

Olivia.  Well,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  inn,  how- 
ever. Now,  if  the  post-chaise  were  ready  — 

Jarvis.  The  horses  are  just  finishing  their  oats; 
and,  as  they  are  not  going  to  be  married,  they  choose 
to  take  their  own  time. 

Olivia.  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives  to 
my  impatience. 

Jarvis.  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses  must 
take  their  own  time;  besides,  you  don't  consider  we 
have  got  no  answer  from  our  fellow-traveller  yet.  If 
we  hear  nothing  from  Mr.  Leontine,  we  have  only  one 
way  left  us. 

Olivia.   What  way? 

Jarvis.  The  way  home  again. 

Olivia.  Not  so,  I  have  made  a  resolution  to  go,  and 
nothing  shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

Jarvis.  Ay ;  resolutions  are  well  kept  when  they 
jump  with  inclination.  However,  I  '11  go  hasten  things 
without.  And  I'll  call,  too,  at  the  bar,  to  see  if  any- 
thing should  be  left  for  us  there.  Don't  be  in  such  a 
plaguy  hurry,  madam,  and  we  shall  go  the  faster,  I 
promise  you.  [Exit. 

Enter  Landlady. 

Landlady.  What!  Solomon  !  why  don't  you  move? 
Pipes    and    tobacco    for    the    Lamb  *    there.  —  Will 

'  Lamb  .  .  .  Dolphin  .  .  .  Angel  :  The  rooms  as  well  as 
the  inns  were  designated  by  names  rather  than  numbers.  See 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  Act  III,  "  Lion  .  .  .  Angel  .  .  .  Lamb." 


ActV]       the   GOOD-NATURED  MAN  75 

nobody  answer  ?  To  the  Dolphin  ;  quick !  The  Angel 
has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour.  Did  your  lady- 
ship call,  madam? 

Ollcia.  No,  madam. 

Landlady.  I  find  as  you  are  for  Scotland,  madam. 
—  But  that 's  no  business  of  mine  \  married,  or  not 
married,  I  ask  no  questions.  To  be  sure,  we  had  a 
sweet  little  couple  set  off  from  this  two  days  ago 
for  the  same  place.  The  gentleman,  for  a  tailor,  was, 
to  be  sure,  as  fine  a  spoken  tailor  as  ever  blew  froth 
from  a  full  pot.  And  the  young  lady  so  bashful,  it  was 
near  half  an  hour  before  we  could  get  her  to  finish  a 
pint  of  raspberry  between  us. 

Olivia.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going  to 
be  married,  I  assure  you. 

Landlady.  May  be  not.  That 's  no  business  of  mine ; 
for  certain,  Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn  out  well. 
There  was,  of  my  own  knowledge,  MissMacfag,  that 
married  her  father's  footman.  —  Alack-a-day,  she  and 
her  husband  soon  parted,  and  now  keep  separate  cel- 
lars in  Iledge-lane.* 

Olivia.  (^Aside.')  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what 
lies  before  me. 

Enter  Leontine. 

Leontine.  My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety,  till  you  were 
out  of  danger,  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I  could  not 
help  coming  to  see  you  set  out,  though  it  exposes  us  to 
a  discovery. 

Olivia.  May  everything  you  do  prove  as  fortunate. 

*  keep  separate  cellars  in  Hedge-laue :  Now  Dorset 
Street.  Johnson's  friend,  Mauritius  Lowe,  the  painter,  lived  at 
No.  3,  Hedge-lane,  in  great  poverty.  Compare  Goldsmith's  A 
Register  of  Scotch  Marriages :  "They  now  keep  separate  garrets 
in  Rosemary-lane." 


76  TPIE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN       [Act  V 

Incleed,  Leontine,  we  have  been  most  cruelly  disap- 
pointed. Mr.  Honeywood's  bill  upon  the  city  has,  it 
seems,  been  protested,  and  we  have  been  utterly  at  a 
loss  how  to  proceed. 

Leontine.  How!  an  offer  of  his  own,  too!  Sure,  he 
could  not  mean  to  deceive  us. 

Olivia.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity;  he  only  mis- 
took the  desire  for  the  power  of  serving  us.  But  let 
us  think  no  more  of  it.  I  believe  the  post-chaise  is 
ready  by  this. 

Landlady.  Not  quite  yet ;  and  begging  your  lady- 
ship's pardon,  I  don't  think  your  ladyship  quite  ready 
for  the  post-chaise.  The  North  Road  is  a  cold  place, 
madam.  I  have  a  drop  in  the  house  of  as  pretty  rasp 
berry  as  ever  was  tipt  over  tongue.  Just  a  thimblefui 
to  keep  the  wind  off  your  stomach.  To  be  sure,  the 
last  couple  we  had  here,  they  said  it  was  a  perfect 
nosegay.  Ecod,  I  sent  them  both  away  as  good-natured 
—  Up  went  the  blinds,  round  went  the  wheels,  and 
Drive  away,  postboy  !  was  the  word. 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Well,  while  my  friend  Honey  wood  is  upon 
the  post  of  danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my  business 
to  have  an  eye  about  me  here.  I  think  I  know  an  incen- 
diary's look ;  for  wherever  the  devil  makes  a  purchase, 
he  never  fails  to  set  his  mark.  Ha !  who  have  we 
here?  My  son  and  daughter  !  What  can  they  be  doing 
here  ? 

Landlady.  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you  good  ; 
I  think  I  know  by  this  time  what 's  good  for  the 
North  Road.    It 's  a  raw  night,  madam  —  sir  — 

Leontine.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I  should 
now  take  it  as  a  greater  favor,  if  you  hasten  the 
horses,  for  I  am  afraid  to  be  seen  myself. 


ActV]       the   GOOD-NATURED  MAN  77 

Landlady.  That  shall  be  clone.  Wha,  Solomon! 
are  you  all  dead  there  ?    Wha,  Solomon,  I  say  ! 

[Exit,  bawling. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  dread  lest  an  expedition  begun  in 
fear,  should  end  in  repentance.  —  Every  moment  we 
stay  increases  our  danger,  and  adds  to  my  apprehen- 
sions. 

Leontine.  There  is  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear ; 
there  can  be  none.  If  Honeywood  has  acted  with  honor, 
and  kept  my  father,  as  he  promised,  in  employment 
till  we  are  out  of  danger,  nothing  can  interrupt  our 
journe3^ 

Olivia.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Honeywood's  sin- 
cerity, and  even  his  desires  to  serve  us.  My  fears  are 
from  your  fatlier's  suspicions.  A  mind  so  disposed  to 
be  alarmed  without  a  cause,  will  be  but  too  ready  when 
there  's  a  reason. 

Leontine.  Why,  let  him,  when  we  are  out  of  his 
power.  But  believe  me,  Olivia,  you  have  no  great 
reason  to  dread  his  resentment.  His  repining  temper, 
as  it  does  no  manner  of  injury  to  himself,  so  will  it 
never  do  harm  to  others.  He  only  frets  to  keep  him- 
self employed,  and  scolds  for  his  private  amusement. 

Olivia.  I  don't  know  that ;  but  I  'm  sure,  on  some 
occasions,  it  makes  him  look  most  shockingly. 

Croalrr.  (^Discovering  himself.')  How  does  he  look 
now? —  How  does  he  look  now? 

Olivia.  Ah! 

Leontine.  Undone ! 

Croaker.  How  do  I  look  now  ?  Sir,  I  am  your  very 
humble  servant.  Madam,  I  am  yours  !  What,  you  are 
going  off,  are  you?  Then,  first,  if  you  please,  take  a 
word  or  two  from  me  with  you  before  you  go.  Tell 
me  iiist  where  you  are  going;    and  when  you  have 


78  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN        [Act  V 

told  me  that,  perhaps  I  shall  know  as  little  as  I  did 
before. 

Leontine.  If  that  be  so,  our  answer  might  but  in- 
crease your  displeasure,  without  adding  to  your  infor- 
mation. 

Croaker.  I  want  no  information  from  you,  pupjiy  ; 
and  you  too,  good  madam,  what  answer  have  you  got  ? 
Eh  !  (^A  cry  without,  "  /Stop  him!  ")  I  think  I  heard  a 
noise.  My  friend  Honey  wood  without  —  has  he  seized 
the  incendiary  ?  Ah,  no,  for  now  I  hear  no  more  on  't. 

Leontine.  Honey  wood  without !  Then,  sir,  it  was 
Mr.  Honeywood  that  directed  you  hither? 

Croaker.  No,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honeywood  conducted 
me  hither. 

Leontine.  Is  it  possible? 

Croaker.  Possible !  Why,  he  's  in  the  house  now, 
sir ;  more  anxious  about  me  than  my  own  son,  sir. 

Leontine.  Then,  sir,  he  's  a  villain  ! 

Croaker.  How,  sirrah !  a  villain,  because  he  takes 
most  care  of  your  father  ?  I  '11  not  bear  it.  I  tell  you 
I'll  not  bear  it.  Honeywood  is  a  friend  to  the  family, 
and  I  '11  have  him  treated  as  such. 

Leontine.  I  shall  study  to  re})ay  his  friendship  as  it 
deserves. 

Croaker.  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly  he 
entered  into  my  gi-iefs,  and  pointed  out  the  means  to 
detect  them,  you  would  love  him  as  I  do.  (vl  cry  with- 
out.,'■'' Stop  Jntn  ! ''^  Fire  and  fury!  they  have  seized 
the  incendiary  ;  they  have  the  villain,  the  incendiary 
in  view.  Sto[)  him  !  stop  an  incendiary  !  a  murderer! 
stop  him  I  {Exit. 

Olivid.  Oh,  my  terrors!  what  can  this  new  tumult 
mean  ? 

Leontine.  Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr.  Honey. 


ActV]       the  good-natured  man  79 

wood's  sincerity.  But  we  shall  have  satisfaction  :  he 
shall  give  me  instant  satisfaction. 

Olivia.  It  must  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you  value 
Tny  esteem  or  my  happiness.  Whatever  be  our  fate, 
let  us  not  add  guilt  to  our  misfortunes  —  Consider  that 
our  innocence  will  shortly  be  ail  we  have  left  us.  You 
must  forgive  him. 

Leontine.  Forgive  him!  Has  he  not  in  every  in- 
stance betrayed  us  ?  Forced  me  to  borrow  money  from 
him,  which  appears  a  mere  trick  to  delay  us ;  promised 
to  keep  my  father  engaged  till  we  were  out  of  danger, 
and  here  brought  him  to  the  very  scene  of  our  escape  ? 

Olivia.  Don't  be  precipitate.  We  may  yet  be  mis- 
taken. 

Enter  Postboy,  dragging  in  Jarvis ;  Honeywood  entering  soon  after. 

Po8tboy.  Ay,  master,  we  have  him  fast  enough. 
Here  is  the  incendiary  dog.  I  'm  entitled  to  the  re- 
ward ;  I  '11  take  my  oath  I  saw  him  ask  for  the  money 
at  the  bar,  and  then  run  for  it. 

Honeywood.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us  see 
him.  Let  him  learn  to  blush  for  his  crimes.  (^Discov^ 
ering hismistahe.^  Death!  what 's here?  Jarvis, Leon- 
tine, Olivia  !  What  can  all  this  mean  ? 

Jarvis.  Why  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  means  :  that  I  was 
an  old  fool,  and  that  you  are  my  master  —  that's  all. 

Honeyivood.  Confusion! 

Leontine.  Yes,  sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your  word 
with  me.  After  such  baseness,  1  wonder  how  you  cai 
venture  to  see  the  man  5'ou  have  injured  ! 

Honeywood.  My  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my 
honor  — 

Leontine.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame  ;  and  do  not  con- 
tinue to  aggravate  baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I  know  you, 
sir,  I  know  you. 


80  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN        [Act  ^ 

Iloneywood.  Why,  won't  you  hear  me?  By  all 
that's  just,  I  knew  not  — 

Leontine.  Hear  you,  sir?  to  what  purpose?  I  now 
see  through  all  your  low  arts ;  your  ever  complying 
with  every  opinion  ;  your  n'iver  refusing-  any  request ; 
your  friendship  as  common  as  a  prostitute's  favors, 
and  as  fallacious ;  all  these,  sir,  have  long  been  con- 
temptible to  the  world,  and  are  now  perfectly  so  to 

1316. 

Jloneywood.  (^Aside.')  Ha !  "  contemptible  to  the 
world  "  !  that  reaches  me. 

Leontine.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your  profes- 
sions, I  now  find  were  only  allurements  to  betray  ;  and 
all  your  seeming  regret  for  their  consequences,  only 
calculated  to  cover  the  cowardice  of  your  heart.  Draw, 
villain ! 

Enter  Croaker,  out  of  breath. 

Croaker.  Where  is  the  villain?  Where  is  the  in- 
cendiary? (^Seizing  the  Posthoy^.  Hold  him  fast,  the 
dog ;  he  has  the  gallows  in  his  face.  Come,  you  dog, 
confess  ;  confess  all,  and  hang  yourself. 

Postboy.  Zounds,  master !  what  do  you  throttle  me 
for? 

Croaker,  {Beating  him.^  Dog,  do  you  resist;  do 
you  resist? 

Postboy.  Zounds,  master!  I  'm  not  he  ;  there  's  the 
man  that  we  thought  was  the  rogue,  and  turns  out  to 
be  one  of  the  company. 

Croaker.  How ! 

Iloneywood.  Mr.  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  under 
a  strange  mistake  here  ;  I  find  there  is  nobody  guilty; 
it  was  all  an  error ;  entirely  an  error  of  our  own. 

Croaker.  And  I  say,  sir,  that  you  're  in  an  error : 
for  there  's  guilt  and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damned 


ActV]        the  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  81 

Jesuitical,  pestilential  plot,  and    I    must    have  proof 
of  it. 

Iloneywood.  Do  but  hear  me. 

Croaker.  What !  you  intend  to  bring  'em  off,  I  sup- 
pose? I  '11  hear  nothing. 

Iloneywood.  Madam,  you  seem  at  least  calm  enough 
to  hear  reason. 

Olivia.  Excuise  me. 

Honeywood.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me  then  explain  it  to 
you. 

Jarvis.  What  signifies  explanation  when  the  thing 
is  done  ? 

Honeyioood.  Will  nobody  hear  me?  W^as  there 
ever  such  a  set,  so  blinded  by  passion  and  prejudice ! 
(  To  the  Postboy.)  My  good  friend,  I  believe  you  '11  be 
surprised  when  I  assure  you  — 

Postboy.  Sure  me  nothing  —  I  'm  sure  of  nothing 
but  a  good  beating. 

Croaker.  Come  then,  you,  madam,  if  you  ever  hope 
for  any  favor  or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincerely  all  you 
know  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Unhappily,  sir,  I  'm  but  too  much  the  cause 
of  your  suspicions :  you  see  before  you,  sir,  one  that, 
with  false  pretences,  has  stept  into  your  family  to  be- 
tray it ;  not  your  daughter  — 

Croaker.  Not  my  daughter ! 

Olivia.  Not  your  daughter  —  but  a  mean  deceiver 
—  who  —  support  me,  I  cannot  — 

Iloneywood.  Help,  she  's  going ;  give  her  air. 

Croaker.  Ay,  ay,  take  the  young  woman  to  the  air ; 
I  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whose  ever 
daughter  she  may  be —  not  so  bad  as  that  neither. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Croaker. 

\    Yes,  yes,  all 's  out ;  I  now  see  the  whole  affair ;  my 


82  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN        [Act  V 

son  is  either  married,  or  going  to  be  so,  to  this  lady, 
whom  he  imposed  upon  me  as  his  sister.  Ay,  cer- 
tainly so ;  and  yet  I  don't  find  it  afflicts  me  so  much 
as  one  might  think.  There  's  the  advantage  of  fretting 
away  our  misfortunes  beforehand  ;  we  never  feel  them 
when  they  come. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  But  how  do  you  know,  madam,  that 
my  nephew  intends  setting  off  from  this  place  ? 

3IiiiS  Richland.  My  maid  assured  me  he  was  come 
to  this  inn,  and  my  own  knowledge  of  his  intending  to 
leave  the  kingdom  suggested  the  rest.  But  what  do 
I  see  ?  my  guardian  here  before  us  !  Who,  my  dear  sir, 
could  have  expected  meeting  you  here  ?  To  what  acci- 
dent do  we  owe  this  pleasure? 

Croaher.  To  a  fool,  I  believe. 

3Iiss  Richland.  But  to  what  purpose  did  you 
come? 

Croaker.  To  play  the  fool. 

3Iiss  Richland.  But  with  whom  ? 

Croaker.  With  greater  fools  than  myself. 

Miss  Richland.  Explain. 

Croaker.  Why,  Mr.  Honeywood  brought  me  here, 
to  do  nothing  now  I  am  here  ;  and  my  son  is  going  to 
be  married  to  I  don't  know  who,  that  is  here :  so  now 
you  are  as  wise  as  I  am. 

Miss  Richland.  Married  !  to  whom,  sir? 

Croaker.  To  Olivia,  my  daughter,  as  I  took  her  to 
be  ;  but  who  the  devil  she  is,  or  whose  daughter  she  is, 
I  know  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 

Sir  William.  Then,  sir,  I  can  inform  you ;  and, 
though  a  stranger,  yet  you  shall  find  me  a  friend  to 
your  family.  It  will  be  enough,  at  present,  to  assure 
you  that,  both  in  point  of  birth  and  fortune,  the  young 


ActV]       the  good-natured  man  83 

lady  is  at  least  your  son's  equal.  Being  left  by  her 
father,  Sir  James  Woodville  — 

Croaker.  Sir  James  Woodville !  What,  of  the 
west? 

Sir  William.  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the  care 
of  a  mercenary  wretch,  whose  only  aim  was  to  secure 
her  fortune  to  himself,  she  was  sent  to  France,  under 
pretence  of  education  ;  and  there  every  art  was  tried 
to  fix  her  for  life  in  a  convent,  contrary  to  her  incli- 
nations. Of  this  I  was  informed  upon  my  arrival  at 
Paris  ;  and,  as  I  had  been  once  her  father's  friend,  I 
did  all  in  my  power  to  frustrate  her  guardian's  base 
intentions.  I  had  even  meditated  to  rescue  her  from 
his  authority,  when  your  son  stepped  in  with  more 
pleasing  violence,  gave  her  liberty,  and  you  a  daughter. 

Croaker.  But  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my 
own  choosing,  sir.  A  young  lady,  sir,  whose  fortune, 
by  my  interest  with  those  that  have  interest,  will  be 
double  what  my  son  has  a  right  to  expect !  Do  you 
know  Mr.  Lofty,  sir? 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir :  and  know  that  you  are  de- 
ceived in  him.  But  step  this  way,  and  I  '11  convince 
you.  l^Croaker  and  Sir  William  seem  to  confer. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeyxoood.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in  his 
outrage !  Insulted  by  him,  despised  by  all,  I  now  be- 
gin to  grow  contemptible  even  to  myself.  How  have 
I  sunk  by  too  great  an  assiduity  to  please !  How  have 
I  overtaxed  all  my  abilities,  lest  the  approbation  of 
a  single  fool  should  escape  me  !  But  all  is  now  over :  I 
have  survived  my  reputation,  my  fortune,  my  friend- 
ships, and  nothing  remains  henceforward  for  me  but 
solitude  and  repentance. 

Miss  Richland.  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honeywood,  that 


U  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN       [Act  V 

you  are  setting  off,  without  taking  leave  of  your 
friends  ?  The  report  is  that  you  are  quitting  England. 
Can  it  be  ? 

Honeyv^ood.  Yes,  madam  ;  and  though  I  am  so  un- 
happy as  to  have  fallen  under  your  displeasure,  yet, 
thank  Heaven  !  I  leave  you  to  happiness  ;  to  one  who 
loves  you,  and  deserves  your  love  ;  to  one  who  has 
power  to  procure  you  affluence,  and  generosity  to 
improve  your  enjoyment  of  it. 

31iss  RicJiland.  And  are  you  sure,  sir,  that  the 
gentleman  you  mean  is  what  you  describe  him? 

Honey  wood.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it  — 
his  serving  me.  He  does  indeed  deserve  the  highest 
happiness,  and  that  is  in  your  power  to  confer.  As 
for  me,  weak  and  wavering  as  I  have  been,  obliged 
by  all,  and  incapable  of  serving  any,  what  happiness 
can  I  find  but  in  solitude  ;  what  hope,  but  in  being 
forgotten? 

Miss  ItlcJdayid.  A  thousand  !  to  live  among  friends 
that  esteem  you,  whose  happiness  it  will  be  to  be  per- 
mitted to  oblige  you. 

Honey  wood.  No,  madam,  my  resolution  is  fixed. 
Inferiority  among  strangers  is  easy;  but  among  those 
that  once  were  equals,  insupportable.  Nay,  to  show 
you  how  far  my  resolution  can  go,  I  can  now  speak 
with  calmness  of  my  former  follies,  my  vanity,  my 
dissipation,  my  weakness.  I  will  even  confess  that, 
among  the  number  of  my  other  presumptions,  I  had 
the  insolence  to  think  of  loving  you.  Yes,  madam, 
while  I  was  pleading  the  passion  of  another,  my  heart 
was  tortured  with  its  own.  But  it  is  over;  it  was 
unworthy  our  friendship,  and  let  it  be  forgotten. 

Miss  Richland.  You  amaze  me  I 

Honeywood.  But  you  '11  forgive  it,  I  know  you  will; 


ActV]       the  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  85 

since  the  confession  should  not  have  come  from  me 
even  now,  but  to  convince  you  of  the  sincerity  of  my 
intention  of  —  never  mentioning-  it  more.  [Going. 

Miss  liicldand.  Stiiy,  sir,  one  moment  —  Ha  !  he 
here  — 

Enter  Lofly. 

Lofty.  Is  the  coast  clear?  None  but  friends?  I 
have  followed  you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of  intel- 
ligence ;  but  it  goes  no  farther  ;  things  are  not  yet  ripe 
for  a  discovery.  I  have  s])irits  working  at  a  certain 
board  ;  your  affair  at  the  Treasury  will  be  done  in  less 
than  —  a  thousand  years.  Mum  ! 

Miss  Richland.   Sooner,  sir,  I  should  hope. 

Lofty.  \Vh3%  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls  into 
proper  hands,  that  know  where  to  push  and  where  to 
parry  ;  that  know  how  the  land  lies  —  eh,  Honey- 
wood  ? 

Miss  Richland.  It  is  fallen  into  yours. 

Lofty.  AYell,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense, 
your  thing  is  done.  It  is  done, I  say — that 'sail.  I  have 
just  had  assurances  from  Lord  Neverout,  that  the  claim 
has  been  examined,  and  found  admissible.  Quietus  is 
the  word,  madam. 

Honey  wood.  But  how?  his  lordship  has  been  at 
Newmarket  these  ten  days  ! 

Lofty.  Indeed !  Then  Sir  Gilbert  Goose  must  have 
been  most  damnably  mistaken.  I  had  it  of  him. 

3Hss  Richland.  He!  why.  Sir  Gilbert  and  his 
family  have  been  in  the  country  this  month. 

Lofty.  This  month  !  it  must  certainly  be  so —  Sir 
Gilbert's  letter  did  come  to  me  from  Newmarket,  sg 
that  he  must  have  met  his  Lordship  there  ;  and  so  it 
came  about.  I  have  his  letter  about  me ;  I  '11  read  it 
to  you.  (^Taking  out  a    large  bundle.^  That's  from 


86  THE   GOOD-NATURED  MAN        [Act  V 

Paoli  of  Corsica ;  *  that  from  the  Marquis  of  Squi- 
lachi.^  —  Have  you  a  inind  to  see  a  letter  from  Count 
Poniatowski,^  now  King  of  Poland?  —  Honest  Pon  — 
{Searching.^  Oh,  sir,  what,  are  you  here  too?  I  '11  tell 
you  what,  honest  friend,  if  you  have  not  absolutely 
delivered  my  letter  to  Sir  William  Honeywood, 
you  may  return  it.  The  thing  will  do  without 
him. 

Sir  William.  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it,  and  must  in- 
form you  it  was  received  with  the  most  mortifying 
contempt. 

Croaker.  Contempt !  Mr.  Lofty,  what  can  that 
mean? 

Lofty.  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say.  You'll 
find  it  come  to  something  presently. 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir ;  I  believe  you'll  be  amazed, 
if,  after  waiting  some  time  in  the  antechamber,  after 
being  surveyed  with  insolent  curiosity  by  the  passing 
servants,  I  was  at  last  assured  that  Sir  William  Hon- 
eywood  knew  no  such  person,  and  I  must  certainly 
have  been  imposed  upon. 

Lofty.  Good;  let  me  die;  very  good.   Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Croaher.  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can't  find  out  half  the 
goodness  of  it. 

Lofty.  You  can't?  Ha!  ha! 

Croaker.  No,  for  the  soul  of  me !  I  think  it  was  as 

»  Paoli  of  Corsica  :  Pascal  Paoli  (1726-1807)  was  appointed 
General-in-Chief  for  the  Corsicans  in  1755.  One  year  later  than 
the  date  of  this  play  his  army  was  overcome  by  the  French. 
Paoli  then  settled  in  England  and  became  a  friend  of  Johnson 
and  Goldsmith. 

'  Squilachi  :  Member  of  the  noble  Spanish  family  of  Esqui* 
lache  in  Calabria. 

^  Poniatowski  :  Stanislas-Angustns  Poniatowski  (1732-98) 
was  known  as  Stanislaus  II,  last  King  of  Poland. 


Act  V]       THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  87 

confounded  a  bad  answer  as  ever  was  sent  from  one 
private  gentleman  to  another. 

Lofty.  And  so  you  can't  find  out  the  force  of  the 
message  ?  Wh}- ,  I  was  in  the  house  at  that  very  timaa 
Ha !  ha !  It  was  I  that  sent  that  very  answer  to  my 
own  letter.   Ha!  ha! 

Croaker.  Indeed  !  How  ?  why  ? 

Lofty.  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William 
and  me  must  be  behind  the  curtain.  A  party  has  many 
eyes.  He  sides  with  Lord  Buzzard,  I  side  with  Sir 
Gilbert  Goose.  So  that  unriddles  the  mystery. 

Croaker.  And  so  it  does,  indeed,  and  all  my  sus- 
picions are  over. 

Lofty.  Your  suspicions  !  What  then,  you  have  been 
suspecting,  you  have  been  suspecting,  have  you  ?  Mr. 
Croaker,  you  and  I  were  friends  —  we  are  friends  no 
longer.    Never  talk  to  me.   It's  over;  I  say,  it's  over. 

Croaker.  As  I  hope  for  your  favor,  I  did  not  mean 
to  offend.  It  escaped  me.  Don't  be  discomjjosed. 

Lofty.  Zounds  !  sir,  but  I  am  discomposed,  and  will 
be  discomposed.  To  be  treated  thus!  Who  am  I? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  been  dreaded  both  by  ins  and 
outs?  Have  I  been  libelled  in  the  Gazetteer.,  and 
praised  in  the  St.  Jainess  ;  ^  have  I  been  chaired  at 
Wildman's,-  and  a  speaker  at  Merchant  Tailors'  Hall ;  ^ 

1  St.  James's  :   St.  James's  Chronicle  ;  first  issued  1763. 
*  "Wildmau's  :  A  coffee-house  in  Bedford  Street,  Strand. 

Each  dish  at  Wildman's  of  sedition  smacks; 
Blasphemy  may  be  Gospel  at  AIniack's. 

Churchill,  The  Candidate. 
3  Merchant  Tailors'  Hall  :    A  f.imous  bauqueting-hall  foJ 
several  centuries. 

Now  I  remember 
We  met  at  Merchant  Taylors'  Hall  at  dinner, 
In  Threadueedle  Street. 

Ben  Jonson,  The  Magnetic  Lady. 


88  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN       [Act  V 

have  I  bad  my  hand  to  addresses,  and  my  head  in  the 
print-shops,  and  talk  to  me  of  suspects? 

Croaker.  My  dear  sir,  be  pacified.  What  can  you 
have  but  asking-  ^mrdon  ? 

Lofty.  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified  —  Suspects !  Who 
am  I?  To  be  used  thus !  Have  I  paid  court  to  men  in 
favor  to  serve  my  friends ;  the  Lords  of  the  Treasury, 
Sir  William  Honeywood,  and  the  rest  of  the  gang, 
and  talk  to  me  of  suspects!  Who  am  I,  I  say,  who 
am  I  ? 

Sir  WiUlain.  Since,  sir,  you  are  so  pressing  for  an 
answer,  I'll  tell  you  who  you  are:  —  A  gentleman  as 
well  acquainted  with  politics  as  with  men  in  power ; 
as  well  acquainted  with  persons  of  fashion  as  with 
modesty  ;  with  Lords  of  the  Treasury  as  with  truth  ; 
and  with  all,  as  you  are  with  Sir  William  Honeywood. 
I  am  Sir  William  Honeywood  !  (^Dlscovermg  his  en- 
signs of  the  Bath.^ 

Croaker.  Sir  William  Honeywood! 

Honeywood.  (^Aside.}  Astonishment!  my  uncle! 

Lofty.  So  then,  my  confounded  genius  has  been  all 
this  time  only  leading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in  order  to 
fling  me  out  of  the  window. 

Croaker.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these  your 
works?  Suspect  you!  You,  who  have  been  dreaded 
by  the  ins  and  outs  ;  you,  who  have  had  your  hand  to 
addresses,  and  head  stuck  up  in  print-shops !  If  you 
were  served  right,  j'ou  should  have  your  head  stuck 
up  in  the  pillory. 

Lofty.  Ay,  stick  it  where  you  will;  for,  by  the 
Lord,  it  cuts  but  a  very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks  al 
present. 

Sir  William.  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  you  now 
see  how  incapable  this  gentleman  is  of  serving  you, 


Act  VI        THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN  89 

and  how  little  Miss  Richland  has  to  expect  from  liis 
influence. 

Croaker.  Ay,  sir,  too  well  I  see  it,  and  I  can't  but 
say  I  have  l)ad  some  boding'  of  it  these  ten  days.  So 
I  'in  resolved,  since  my  son  has  placed  his  affections 
on  a  lady  of  moderate  fortune,  to  be  satisfied  with  his 
choice,  and  not  run  the  hazard  of  another  Mr.  Lofty, 
in  helpiiii^  him  to  a  better. 

Sir  WiUiam.  I  approve  your  resolution  ;  and  here 
they  come,  to  receive  a  confirmation  of  your  pardon 
and  consent. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker,  Jarvis,  Leontine,  and  Olivia. 

Jfrs.  Croaker.  Where's  my  husband?  Come, come, 
lovey,  you  must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here  has  been  to 
tell  me  the  whole  affair  ;  and  I  say  you  must  forgive 
them.  Our  own  was  a  stolen  match,  you  know,  my 
dear;  and  we  never  had  any  reason  to  x-epent  of  it. 

Croaker.  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so.  However, 
this  gentleman.  Sir  William  Honeywood,  has  been 
beforehand  with  you  in  obtaining  their  pardon.  So, 
if  the  two  poor  fools  have  a  mind  to  marry,  I  think 
we  can  tack  them  together  without  crossing  the  Tweed 

for  it.  [Joining  their  hands. 

Leontine.  Plow  blest  and  unexpected  !  What,  what 
can  we  say  to  such  goodness  ?  But  our  future  obedi- 
ence shall  be  the  best  reply.  And  as  for  this  gentle- 
man, to  whom  we  owe  — 

Sir  William.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  interrupt  your 
thanks,  as  I  have  here  an  interest  that  calls  me. 
(  Turning  to  Honeyioood.)  Yes,  sir,  you  are  surprised 
to  see  me  ;  and  I  own  that  a  desire  of  correcting  your 
follies  led  me  hither.  I  saw  with  indignation  the  errors 
of  a  mind  that  onl)^  sought  a])])lause  from  others  ;  that 
easiness  of  disposition  which,  though  inclined  to  the 


90  THE   GOOD-NATURED   MAN       [Act  V 

ri^lit,  had  not  courage  to  condemn  the  wrong.  I  saw 
with  regret  those  splendid  errors,  that  still  took  name 
from  some  neighboring  duty;  your  charity,  that  was 
but  injustice ;  your  benevolence,  that  was  but  weak- 
ness ;  and  your  friendship,  but  credulity.  I  saw  with 
regret  great  talents  and  extensive  learning  only  em- 
ployed to  add  sprightliness  to  error,  and  increase  your 
perplexities.  I  saw  your  mind  with  a  thousand  natural 
charms ;  but  the  greatness  of  its  beauty  served  only 
to  heighten  my  pity  for  its  prostitution. 

Honeytoood.  Cease  to  upbraid  me,  sir  ;  I  have  for 
some  time  but  too  strongly  felt  the  justice  of  your 
reproaches.  But  there  is  one  way  still  left  me.  Yes, 
sir,  I  have  determined  this  very  hour  to  quit  forever 
a  place  where  I  have  made  myself  the  voluntary  slave 
of  all ;  and  to  seek  among  sti-angers  that  fortitude 
which  may  give  strength  to  the  mind,  and  marshal  all 
its  dissipated  virtues.  Yet,  ere  I  depart,  permit  me  to 
solicit  favor  for  this  gentleman  ;  who,  notwithstanding 
what  has  happened,  has  laid  me  under  the  most  signal 
obligations.   Mr.  Lofty  — 

Lofty,  Mr.  Honeywood,  I  'm  resolved  upon  a  refor- 
mation as  well  as  j'ou.  I  now  begin  to  find  that  the 
man  who  first  invented  the  art  of  speaking  truth  was 
a  much  cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought  him.  And* 
to  prove  that  I  design  to  speak  truth  for  the  future,  I 
must  now  assure  you  that  you  owe  j^our  late  enlarge- 
ment to  another,  as,  upon  my  soul,  I  had  no  hand  in 
the  matter.  So  now.,  if  any  of  the  company  has  a  mind 
for  preferment,  he  may  take  my  place.  I  'm  deter- 
mined to  resign.  \Exiu 

Honeywood,  How  have  I  been  deceived ! 

Sir  William.  No,  sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to  a 
kinder,  fairer  friend,  for  that  favor  —  To  Miss  Rich-: 


ActV]       the  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  91 

land.  Would  she  complete  our  joy,  and  make  the  man 
}he  has  honored  by  her  friendship  happy  in  her  love, 
I  should  then  forget  all,  and  be  as  blest  as  the  welfare 
of  my  dearest  kinsman  can  make  me. 

Jliss  lilchland.  After  what  is  past,  it  would  be  but 
affectation  to  pretend  to  indifference.  Yes,  I  will  own 
an  attachment,  which,  I  find,  was  more  than  friend- 
ship. And  if  my  entreaties  cannot  alter  his  resolution 
to  quit  the  country,  I  will  even  try  if  my  hand  has  not 

power  to  detain  him.  [Giving  her  hand. 

Honeyioood.  Heavens !  how  can  I  have  deserved 
all  this  ?  How  express  my  happiness,  my  gratitude  ? 
A  moment  like  this  overpays  an  age  of  apprehension. 

Croaker.  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  every  face  ;  but 
Heaven  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three  months ! 

Sir  William.  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect 
yourself.  He  who  seeks  only  for  applause  from  with- 
out, has  all  his  happiness  in  another's  keeping. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  sir,  I  now  too  plainly  perceive 
my  errors  ;  my  vanity,  in  attempting  to  please  all  by 
fearing  to  offend  any ;  my  meanness,  in  approving 
folly  lest  fools  should  disapprove.  Henceforth,  there- 
fore, it  shall  be  my  study  to  reserve  my  pity  for  real 
distress ;  my  friendship  for  real  merit ;  and  my  love 
for  her,  who  first  taught  me  what  it  is  to  be  happy. 


EPILOGUE  > 

SPOKEN   BY   MRS.   BULKLEY.' 

As  puffing  quacks  some  caitiff  wretch  procure 
To  swear  the  pill,  or  drop,  has  wrought  a  cure  ; 
Thus,  on  the  stage,  our  play-wrights  still  depend 
For  Epilogues  and  Prologues  on  some  friend, 
Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 
And  makes  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 
Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  about, 
And  teased  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out. 
An  Epilogue !  things  can't  go  on  without  it ! 
It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it. 
"  Young  man,"  cries  one  (a  bard  laid  up  in  clover), 
"  Alas,  young  man,  my  writing  days  ai-e  over ; 
Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,^  not  I; 
Your  brother  Doctor  ^  there,  perhaps,  may  try." 

•  Epilogue :  The  author,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from 
a  friend  at  Oxford,  deferred  writing  one  himself  till  the  very  last 
hour.  What  is  here  offered,  owes  all  its  success  to  the  graceful 
manner  of  the  actress  who  spoke  it.  —  Goldsmith. 

-  Mrs.  Bulkley  :  Originally  Miss  Wilford,  was  on  the  Lon- 
don stage  from  1764  to  1789.  She  created  the  part  of  Miss  Hard- 
castle  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  and  of  Julia  in  The  Rivals, 

3  and  kick  the  stra"w:  Referring  to  the  feats  of  a  performer 
named  Mattocks,  who  could  kick  a  straw  and  balance  it  on  his 
nose.  See  The  Citizen  of  (he  World,  Letter  xxi,  on  the  English 
Theatre. 

*  Doctor:  The  title  of  Doctor  seems  to  have  been  somewnat 
more  freely  used  in  Goldsmith's  time  than  at  present.  Johnsoi, 
was  called  Doctor  upon  the  LL.  D.  granted  by  Dublin  University 
in  1765;  however,  he  always  preferred  the  plain  Mister.  Gold- 
smith was  known  as  Doctor  by  common  consent,  though  his  only 
degree  was  M.  B.,  and  he  did  not  use  this  on  a  title-page  until 
March,  1763. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN  93 

"What  I,  dear  sir?"  the  Doctor  interposes, 

"  What,  plant  my  thistle,  sir,  among  his  roses  ! 

No,  no,  I've  other  contests  to  maintain  ; 

To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick-lane.* 

Go,  ask  your  manager."  —  "  Who,  me?  Your  pardou; 

Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent  Garden." 

Diir  author's  friends,  thus  placed  at  happy  distance. 

Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 

As  some  unhappy  wight,  at  some  new  ])lay, 

At  the  pit-door  stands  elbowing  a  way. 

While  oft,  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  shrug, 

He  eyes  the  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug, 

His  simpering  friends  with  pleasure  in  their  eyes, 

Sink  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise : 

He  nods,  they  nod  ;  he  cringes,  they  grimace ; 

But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 

Since,  then,  unhelp'd,  our  bard  must  now  conform 

To  ''bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm,"  ^ 

Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can, 

And  be  each  critic  the  Good-Natured  Man. 

1  War'wick-lane:  Newgate  Street  to  Paternoster  Row.  John 
Roberts,  an  early  publisher  for  Johnson,  lived  at  the  Oxford 
Arms  in  Warwick-lane.  The  College  of  Physicians  was  located 
in  the  Lane. 

^  To  "bide  the  pelting":  King  Lear,  Act  III,  Sc.  4. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

OR, 

THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT 


DEDICATION 
to  samuel  johnson,  ll.  d, 

Dkar  Sir, 

By  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you,  I  do  not  mean  so 
much  to  compliment  you  as  myself.  It  may  do  me  some  honor 
to  inform  the  public,  that  I  have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy 
with  you.  It  may  serve  the  interests  of  mankind  also  to  inform 
them,  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be  found  in  a  character,  without 
impairing  the  most  unaffected  piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for  your  partiality 
to  this  performance.  The  undertaking  a  comedy,  not  merely 
sentimental,  was  very  dangerous  ;  and  Mr.  Colman,  who  saw 
this  piece  in  its  various  stages,  always  thought  it  so.  However, 
I  ventured  to  trust  it  to  the  public  ;  and,  though  it  was  neces- 
sarily delayed  till  late  in  the  season,  I  have  every  reason  to  bo 
grateful. 

I  am,  dear  sir, 

Your  most  sincere  friend 

And  admirer, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


PROLOGUE 

BY   DAVID  GAKRICK,   ESQ.' 

Enter  Mr.  Woodward,'^  dressed  in  black,  and  holding  u  nandkei'chiefU 
his  eyes. 

Excuse  me,  sirs,  I  pray  —  I  can't  yet  speak  — 

I  'm  crying  now  — and  have  been  all  the  week  ! 
*'  'T  is  not  alone  *  this  mourning  suit,"  good  masters  ; 
*'  I  've  that  within  "  —  for  which  there  are  no  plasters! 

Pray  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I  'm  crying  ? 

The  Comic  Muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying ! 

And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop  ; 

For,  as  a  player,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop ; 

I  am  undone,  that 's  all  —  shall  lose  my  bread  — 

I  'd  rather,  but  that 's  nothing  —  lose  my  head. 

When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 

Shuter*  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 

1  Prologue  by  David  G-arrick  :  Garrick  (1716-79),  the 
greatest  producer  of  plays  England  has  known,  was  famous  for 
his  prologues,  of  which  he  wrote  a  great  many.  Concerning  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer  Horace  Walpole  writes,  March  27, 1773,  "Gar- 
rick would  not  act  it,  but  bought  himself  off  with  a  poor  pro* 
logue." 

»  Enter  Mr.  Woodward  :  Henry  Woodward  (1717-77), 
one  of  the  best  comedians  of  the  eighteentli  century,  was  nnri- 
valed  as  Bobadil,  Petruchio,  and  Touchstone.  He  liad  taken  the 
part  of  Lofty  in  The  Good-Natured  Man,  but  spoke  only  the 
prologue  in  this  play. 

s  'Tis  not  alone:  Compare  Hamlet,  Act  I,  Sc.  2:  "  'T  is  not 
alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother." 

*  Shuter:  Edward  Shuter  (1728-7G)  was  considered  by  Gar- 
rick the  greatest  comic  genius  he  bad  ever  seen.  His  best  char- 
acters were  Scrub,  Trapolin,  Launcelot,  and  Falstafif.  His  Croaker 
was  the  success  of  Goldsmith's  first  play. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  bi-eed, 

Who  deals  in  sentimentals,  will  succeed. 

Poor  Ned  and  I  are  dead  to  all  intents ; 

We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments ! 

Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 

We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 

What  shall  we  do  ?  It"  Comedy  forsake  us, 

They  '11  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us- 

But  why  can't  I  be  moral  ?  —  Let  me  try  : 

My  heart  thus  ])ressing  —  fix'd  my  face  and  eye— • 

With  a  sententious  look,  that  nothing  means, 

(Faces  are  blocks  in  sentimental  scenes,) 

Thus  I  begin  —  "All  is  not  gold  that  glitters,* 

Pleasure  seems  sweet,  but  proves  a  glass  of  bittera, 

When  Ignorance  enters,  Folly  is  at  hand ; 

Learning  is  better  far  than  house  and  land. 

Let  not  your  virtue  trip ;  who  trips  may  stumble, 

And  virtue  is  not  virtue,  if  she  tumble." 

I  give  it  up  —  morals  won't  do  for  me  ; 
To  make  you  laugh,  I  tnust  play  tragedy.  ^'"'"^ 
One  hope  remains,  —  hearing  tiie  maid  was  ill, 
A  Doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill. 
To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  mouon. 
He,  in  Five  Draughts  pre])ared,  presents  a  potion  i 
A  kind  of  magic  charm  ;  for,  be  assured. 
If  you  will  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cured  : 
But  desperate  the  Doctor,  and  her  case  is. 
If  you  reject  the  dose,  and  make  wry  faces. 
This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives, 
No  poisonous  drugs  are  mixed  in  what  he  gives. 
Should  he  succeed,  you  '11  give  him  his  degree ; 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee  ! 
The  college  you,  must  his  pretensions  back, 
Pronounce  him  Regular,  or  dub  him  Quack. 

*'  All  is  not  gold  "  :    From  Drydeu's  Hind  and  Panther, 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE 

MEN 

Sir  Charles  Marlow Mr.  Gardner^ 

Young  Marlow  {his  son) Mr.  Lewes. 

hardcastle  .     ,     .     .     o Mr.  Shuter. 

Hastings Mr.  Dubellamyc 

Tony  Lumpkin Mr.  Quick. 

Diggory Mr.  Saunders. 

WOMEN 

Mrs.  Hardcastle Mrs.  Green. 

Miss  Hardcastle Mrs.  Bulkley. 

Miss  Neville •    •    •    .  Mrs.  KnivetoUo 

Maid ,.•..  Miss  Williams 

LandUyrd,  Servants^  iSic.  Ac 


SHE    STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

OR, 

THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT 


ACT  THE  FIRST 
Scene  I,  A  chamber  in  an  old-fashioned  house. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Mr.  Uardcastle. 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  're 
very  particular.  Is  there  a  creature  in  the  whole 
country  but  ourselves  that  does  not  take  a  trip  to 
town  now  and  then,  to  rub  off  the  rust  a  little? 
There  's  the  two  Miss  Hoggs,  and  our  neighbor  Mrs. 
Grigsby,  go  to  take  a  month's  polishing  every  winter. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affecta- 
tion to  last  them  the  whole  year.  I  wonder  why  Lon- 
don cannot  keep  its  own  fools  at  home.  In  my  time, 
the  follies  of  the  town  crept  slowly  among  us,  but  now 
they  travel  faster  than  a  stage-coach.*  Its  foppai-ies 
con>e  down  not  only  as  inside  passengers,  but  in  the 
very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  your  times  were  fine  times 
indeed;  you  have  been  telling  us  of  them  for  many  a 
long  year.  Here  we  live  in  an  old  rumbling  ^  mansion, 
that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  an  inn,  but  that  we 

*  faster  than  a  stage-coach  :  In  April,  17G5,  Jean  Pierre 
Grosley,  in  his  Tour  of  London,  says  that  the  public  carriages  to 
Dover  are  now  called  "  flying  machines." 

^  rumbling  :  rambling. 


6  SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  [Act  I 

never  see  company.  Our  best  visitors  are  old  Mrs. 
Oddfisli,  the  curate's  wife,  and  little  Cripplegate,  the 
lame  dancing-master  ;  and  all  our  entertainment  your 
old  stories  of  Prince  Eugene  ^  and  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough.   I  hate  such  old-fashioned  trumpery. 

Hardcastle.  And  I  love  it.  I  love  everything  that 's 
old :  old  friends,  old  times,  old  manners,  old  books, 
old  wine  ;  ^  and,  I  believe,  Dorothy,  (taking  her  hand,^ 
you  '11  own  I  have  been  pretty  fond  of  an  old  wife. 

J£rs.  Hardcastle.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  for- 
ever at  your  Dorothys  and  your  old  wifes.  You  may 
be  a  Darby,  but  1  '11  be  no  Joan,^  I  promise  you.  I  'm 
not  so  old  as  you  'd  make  me  by  more  than  one  good 
year.   Add  twenty  to  twenty  and  make  money  of  that. 

^  old  stories  of  Prince  Eugene:  On  Friday,  April  10, 1772, 
Goldsmith  dined  with  a  company  at  General  Oglethorpe's,  and 
the  General,  then  seventy-four  years  old,  told  tales  of  his  ser- 
vice with  Prince  Eugene  in  the  Turkish  campaigns  of  1716-17 
(Hill's  Boswell,  vol.  ii,  p.  207).  There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  with 
Hardcastle,  Goldsmith  loved  "such  old-fashioned  trumpery." 
After  the  fashion  of  Oglethorpe,  Hardcastle  tries  to  tell  his  old 
stories  in  Act  II.  Prince  Eugene  visited  England  in  1712,  and 
Steele  wrote  an  essay  on  him  ;  he  also  wrote  a  pamphlet  on  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough  the  same  year. 

'  old  friends,  old  times,  old  manners  :  A  conscious  or  un- 
conscious paraphrase  of  Bacon's  Apothegms,  97  :  "  Old  wood  to 
burn  !  Old  wine  to  drink  !  Old  friends  to  trust  !  Old  authors  to 
read  ! " 

*  Darby  .  .  .  Joan  :  Literary  types  of  husband  and  wife 
who  remain  lovers  throughout  life.  Joan  is  a  typical  name  for 
a  farm  wench.  "  While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot,"  Love's 
Labor's  Zosi  (Act  V,  Sc.  2).  The  first  known  use  of  these  names 
in  conjunction  occurs  in  The  Gentleman's  Magazine,  1735  :  — 

Old  Darby  with  Joan  by  his  side. 
You  've  often  regarded  with  wonder. 


Scene  I]     SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUEP.  7 

Hardcastle.  Let  me  see ;  twenty  added  to  twenty 
—  makes  just  fifty  and  seven  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  It 's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle  5  I  was 
but  twenty  when  I  was  brought  to  bed  of  Tony,  that 
I  had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my  first  husband ;  and  he  ""s 
not  come  to  years  of  discretion  yet. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him. 
Ay,  you  have  taught  him  finely ! 

J/rs.  Hardcastle.  No  matter.  Tony  Lumpkin  has 
a  good  fortune.  My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learningc 
I  don't  think  a  boy  wants  much  learning  to  spend  fif- 
teen hundred  a  year. 

Hardcastle.  Learning,  quotha !  a  mere  composition 
of  tricks  and  mischief  ! 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  Humor,  my  dear ;  nothing  but 
humor.  Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow  the 
boy  a  little  humor. 

Hardcastle.  I  'd  sooner  allow  him  a  horse-pond ! 
If  burning  the  footmen's  shoes,  frighting  the  maids, 
and  worrying  the  kittens,  be  humor,  he  has  it.  It  was 
but  yesterday  he  fastened  my  wig^  to  the  back  of  my 
chair,  and  when  I  went  to  make  a  bow,  I  popped  my 
bald  head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's  fa(!e. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  I  am  to  blame  ?  The  poor  boy 
was  always  too  sickly  to  do  any  good.  A  school  would 
be  his  death.  When  he  comes  to  be  a  littL  stronger 
who  knows  what  a  year  or  two's  Latin  may  do  for  him  ? 

Hardcastle.  Latin  for  him  !  A  cat  and  fiddle  !  No, 
no ;  the  alehouse  and  the  stable  are  the  only  schools 
he  '11  ever  go  to. 

'  fastened  my  vrig  :  This  trick  was  played  on  Goldsmith 
himself.    See  Forster,  Life,  Book  IV,  chap.  xv. 


8  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [Act  I 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor 
boy  now,  for  I  believe  we  shan't  have  him  long  among 
us.  Anybody  that  looks  in  his  face  may  see  he 's  con- 
sumptive. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the 
symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  vrrong 
way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  'ra  actually  afraid  of  hil 
lungs. 

Hardcastle.  And  truly,  so  am  I ;  for  he  sometimes 
whoops  like  a  speaking-trumpet  —  ( Tony  hallooing 
behind  the  scenes.^  —  Oh,  there  he  goes  —  a  very  con- 
sumptive figure,  truly ! 

Enter  Tony,  crossing  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my 
charmer?  Won't  you  give  papa  and  I^  a  little  of 
your  company,  lovey? 

Tony.  I  'm  in  haste,  mother ;  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  shan't  venture  out  this  raw 
evening,  my  dear ;  you  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three  Pigeons 
expects  me  down  every  moment.  There  's  some  fun 
going  forward. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  the  alehouse,  the  old  place ;  I 
thought  so. 

3£rs.  Hardcastle.  A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows. 

Tony.  Not  so  low,  neither.  There  's  Dick  Muggins, 
the  exciseman ;  Jack  Slang,  the  horse-doctor ;  little 

*  papa  and  I  :  Like  Mrs.  Malaprop,  Mrs.  Hardcastle  does 
flot  use  her  mother  tongue  with  accuracy. 


Scene  I]     SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  9 

Amiuadab,  that  grinds  the  music-box;  and  Tom  Twist, 

that  spins  the  pewter  platter. 

3Irs.  Ilardcastle.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them 
for  one  night  at  least. 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not  so 
much  mind  ;  but  I  can't  abide  to  disappoint  myself. 

3Irs.  Ilardcastle.   (^Detaining  him.^  You  shan't  go. 

Tony.  I  will,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  I  say  you  shan't. 

Tony.  We  '11  see  which  is  the  strongest,  you  or  I. 

l^Exit,  hauling  her  out. 

Ilardcastle.  (^Alone.^  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that 
only  spoil  each  other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age  in  a 
combination  to  drive  sense  and  discretion  out  of  doors  ? 
There  's  my  pretty  darling,  Kate ;  the  fashions  of  the 
times  have  almost  infected  her  too.  By  living  a  year 
or  two  in  town,  she  is  as  fond  of  gauze  and  French 
frippery  as  the  best  of  them. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcaxtle, 

Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence!  Dressed  out  as 
usual,  my  Kate.  Goodness !  what  a  quantity  of  super- 
fluous silk  hast  thou  got  about  thee,  girl !  I  could 
never  teach  the  fools  of  this  age  that  the  indigent 
world  *  could  be  clothed  out  of  the  trimmings  of  the 
vain. 

Jliss  Ilardcastle.  You  know  our  agreement,  sir. 
You  allow  me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits, 

1  the  indigent  "wrorld :  Compare  this  with  the  vicar's  speech 
in  The  Vicar  of  Wakp field  (chap,  iv)  :  "  I  do  not  know  whether 
such  flouncing  and  shredding  is  becoming  even  in  the  rich,  if  we 
consider,  upon  a  moderate  calculation,  that  the  nakedness  of  the 
iiiciigeut   wui'ld  might  be  clothed  from  the  trimmings  of  the 


10  SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER         [Act  I 

and  to  dress  in  my  own  manner ;  and  in  the  evening  I 
put  on  my  housewife's  dress  to  please  you. 

Hardcastle,  Well,  remember,  I  insist  on  the  terms 
of  our  agreement ;  and,  by  the  bye,  I  believe  I  shall 
have  occasion  to  try  your  obedience  this  very  evening. 

Miss  Hardcastle,  I  protest,  sir,  I  don't  comprehend 
your  meaning. 

Hardcastle.  Then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I 
expect  the  young  gentleman  I  have  chosen  to  be  your 
husband  from  town  this  very  da}*.  I  have  his  father's 
letter,  in  which  he  informs  me  his  son  is  set  out,  and 
that  he  intends  to  follow  himself  shortly  after. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Indeed !  I  wish  I  had  known 
something  of  this  before.  Bless  m.e,  how  shall  I  behave? 
It 's  a  thousand  to  one  I  shan't  like  him  ;  our  meeting 
will  be  so  formal,  and  so  like  a  thing  of  business,  that 
I  shall  find  no  room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hardcastle.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I  '11  never  con- 
trol your  choice  ;  but  Mr.  Mar  low,  whom  I  have  pitched 
upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Sir  Charles  Marlow, 
of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often.  The  young 
gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is  designed  for 
an  employment  in  the  service  of  his  country.  I  am 
told  he  's  a  man  of  an  excellent  understanding. 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Is  he  ? 

Hardcastle.  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  'm  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more,  (Jciss* 
ing  his  hand,^  he  's  mine,  I  'U  have  him! 


Scene  I]      SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  11 

Hardcnstle.  And,  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he  's  one  of 
the  most  bashful  and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the 
world. 

3Iiss  IFardcastle.  Eh  !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death 
as^ain.  That  word  reserved  has  undone  all  the  rest 
cf  his  accomplishments.  A  reserved  lover,  it  is  said, 
always  makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hardcastle.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  re- 
sides in  a  breast  that  is  not  enriched  with  nobler  vir- 
tues. It  was  the  very  feature  in  his  character  that  first 
struck  me. 

3Uss  Hardcastle.  He  must  have  more  striking  fea- 
tures to  catch  me,  I  promise  you.  However,  if  he  be  so 
young,  so  handsome,  and  so  everything  as  you  mention, 
I  believe  he  '11  do  still ;  I  think  I  '11  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle. 
It 's  more  than  an  even  wager  he  may  not  have  you. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  mor- 
tify one  so?  Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead' of  breaking 
my  heart  at  his  indifference,  I  '11  only  break  my  glass 
for  its  flattery,  set  my  cap  to  some  newer  fashion,  and 
look  out  for  some  less  difficult  admirer. 

Hardcastle.  Bravely  resolved!  In  the  mean  time, 
I  '11  go  prepare  the  servants  for  his  reception  ;  as  we 
seldom  see  company,  they  want  as  much  training  as  a 
company  of  recruits  the  first  day's  muster.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (^Alone.')  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's 
puts  me  all  in  a  flutter.  Yoiing,  handsome  ;  these  he 
put  last,  but  I  put  them  foremost.  fScnsible,  qood-na' 
tured ;  I  like  all  that.  But  then,  reserved  and  sheep" 
ish  ;  that 's  much  against  him.  Yet,  can't  he  be  cured 
of  his  timidity  by  being  taught  to  be  proud  of  his  wife  ? 


12  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [Act  I 

Yes  ;  and  can't  I  —  but  I  vow  I  'm  disposing  of  the 
husband,  before  I  have  secured  the  lover. 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  'm  glad  you  're  come,  Neville, 
my  dear.  Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look  this  even- 
ing? Is  there  anything  whimsical  about  me?  Is  it 
one  of  my  well-looking  days,  child  ?  Am  I  in  face  to- 
day? 

3Iiss  Neville,  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet,  now  I  look 
again  —  bless  me !  —  surely  no  accident  has  happened 
among  the  canary  birds  or  the  gold-fishes  ?  Has  your 
brother  or  the  cat  been  meddling  ?  Or  has  the  last 
novel  been  too  moving  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No;  nothing  of  all  this.  I  have 
been  threatened  —  I  can  scarce  get  it  out  —  I  have 
been  threatened  with  a  lover. 

Miss  Neville.    And  his  name  — 

Miss  Hardcastle.    Is  Marlow. 

3Iiss  Neville.    Indeed ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.    The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend 
of  Mr.  Hastings,  my  admirer.  They  are  never  asun- 
der. I  believe  you  must  have  seen  him  when  we  lived 
in  town. 

Miss  Hardcastle.    Never. 

3Iiss  Neville.  He 's  a  very  singular  character,  I 
assure  you.  Among  women  of  reputation  and  virtue, 
he  is  the  modestest  man  alive ;  but  his  acquaintance 
give  him  a  very  different  character  among  creatures 
ot  another  stamp  :  you  understand  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  odd  character,  indeed!  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  manage  him.    What  shall  I  do? 


Scene  I]      SHE   STOOPS   TO  CONQUER  13 

Pshaw,  think  uo  more  of  hirii,  but  trust  to  occurrences 
for  success.  But  how  goes  on  your  own  affair,  my 
dear?  Has  my  mother  been  courting  you  for  my 
brother  Tony,  as  usual? 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  just  come  from  one-  of  our 
agreeable  tete-a-tetes.  She  has  been  saying  a  hundred 
tender  tilings,  and  setting  off  her  pretty  monster  as 
the  very  pink  of  perfection. 

3fiss  Hardcastle.  And  her  partiality  is  such  that 
she  actually  thinks  him  so.  A  fortune  like  yours  is  no 
small  temptation.  Besides,  as  she  has  the  sole  man- 
agement of  it,  I  'm  not  surprised  to  see  her  unwilling 
to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly 
consists  in  jewels,  is  no  such  mighty  temptation.  But 
at  any  rate,  if  my  dear  Hastings  be  but  constant,  I 
make  no  doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her  at  last.  How- 
ever, I  let  her  supj^ose  that  I  am  in  love  with  her  son ; 
and  she  never  once  dreams  that  my  affections  are  fixed 
upon  another. 

J//,s's  Hardcastle.  My  good  brother  holds  out 
stoutly.   I  could  almost  love  him  for  hating  you  so. 

Miss  Neville.  It  is  a  good-natured  creature  at  bot- 
tom, and  I  'm  sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married  to 
anybody  but  himself.  But  my  aunt's  bell  rings  for 
our  afternoon's  walk  round  the  improvements.  Allans. 
Courage  is  necessary,  as  our  affairs  are  critical. 

Miss  Hardcastle.    Wauld  it  were  bed-time,  and  all 

were  well.  [Exeunt, 


14  SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER         [Act  I 

Scene  II,  An  alehouse  room. 

Several  ahabby  follows  with  punch  and  tobacco ;  Tuny  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest ;  a  mallet  in  his  hand. 

Omnes.    Hurrea,  hurrea,  hurrea,  bravo  ! 

First  Fellow.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for  a  song. 
The  Squire  is  going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a 
song.  * 

Omnes.    Ay,  a  song,  a  song ! 

Tony.  Then  I  '11  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I 
made  upon  this  alehouse.  The  TJiree  Pigeons.^ 

SONG. 

Let  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain, 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning ; 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning. 
Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods. 

Their  Lelhes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians, 
Their  quis,  and  their  quces,  and  their  quods, 

I'hey  're  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll  t 

When  Methodist  preachers  '  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
I  'II  wager  the  rascals  a  crown. 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 

'  knock  himself  do-wrn  for  a  song  :  It  will  be  noticed  that 
Tony  has  a  mallet  in  his  hand  and  has  presumably  been  playing 
auctioneer. 

'  The  Three  Pigeons  :  To  pigeon  meant  to  fleece  at  faro. 
Goldsmith  often  sang  tliis  song  himpelf. 

'  Methodist  preachers  :  Goldsmith  never  missed  a  chance 
to  ridicule  the  followers  of  Wesley.  See  The  Citizen  of  thi 
World,  Letter  cxi,  and  references  to  "  the  tabernacle "  in 
»>&vs. 


Scene  II]    SHE   STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  15 

But  when  you  come  down  ivith  your  pence, 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  reVujion, 
I  'U  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

That  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  turoddle,  toroU  I 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  '  about, 
A  nd  let  us  be  merry  and  clever. 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here  's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever. 
Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  ividgeons  ; 
But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air, 

Here  's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll  I 
Omnes.  Bravo,  bravo ! 

First  Fellow.  The  Squire  has  got  some  spunk  in 
him. 

Second  Felloic.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays 

he  never  gives  us  nothing  tl<at  's  loWaf ^ 

Third  Fellow.  Oh,  damn  anything  that 's  low»  I 
cannot  bear  it ! 

Fourth  Fellow.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel 
thing  an}''  time ;  i£  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees  in  a 
concatenation  ''  accordingly. 

Third  FelJmo.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Master  Mug- 
gins. What  tliough  I  am  obligated  to  dance  a  bear,  a 
man  may  be  a  gentleman  for  all  that.  May  this  be  my 
poison,  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but  to  the  very  genteel- 

'  jorum  :  A  drinking  bowl.  "  The  usurer  is  <a  swallow,  sir, 
tliat  can  swallow  gold  by  the  jorum."  Fielding,  The  .Author's 
Farce,  1730. 

'  he  never  gives  us  nothing  that's  low:  This  and  the  next 
three  speeches  refer  to  the  criticism  of  Goldsmith's  first  play  as 
ungenteel. 

'  concatenation  accordingly:  Fourth  Fellow  is  talking  non« 
sense. 


16  SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER         1;Act  I 

est. of  tunes:  Water  Parted,'^  or  The  minuet  in  ArU 
adne? 

Second  Fellow.  What  a  pity  it  is  the  Squire  is  not 
come  to  his  own.  It  would  be  well  for  all  the  publicans 
within  ten  miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang.  I  'd 
then  show  what  it  was  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

Second  Fellow.  Oh,  he  takes  after  his  own  father 
for  that.  To  be  sure,  old  Squire  Lumpkin  was  the 
finest  gentleman  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  For  winding 
the  sti'aight  horn,^  or  beating  a  thicket  for  a  hare,  or 
a  wench,  he  never  had  his  fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in 
the  place,  that  he  kept  the  best  horses,  dogs,  and  girls, 
in  the  whole  county. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  when  I  'm  of  age  I  '11  be  no  bastard, 
I  promise  you.  I  have  been  thinking  of  Bet  Bouncer  * 
and  the  miller's  gray  mare  to  begin  with.  But  come, 
my  boys,  drink  about  and  be  merry,  for  you  pay  no 
reckoning.   Well,  Stingo,  what's  the  matter? 

>  "Water  Parted:  The  first  words  of  a  song  sung  by  Arbaces 
in  Act  III  of  Arne's  opera  of  Artaxerxes,  first  performed  Feb- 
ruary, 1762: — 

Water  parted  from  the  sea, 

May  increase  the  river's  tide; 
To  the  bubbline  fount  may  flee, 

Or  thro'  fertile  rallies  glide  : 
Yet  in  search  of  lost  repose, 

Dooni'd  like  nie  forlorn  to  roam, 
Still  it  nuirniur.s  as  it  Hows, 

Till  it  reach  its  native  home. 

2  minuet  in  Ariadne:  Handel's  opera  Ariadne  opens  with 
a  minuet. 

'  the  straight  horn:  The  coaching  horn. 

*  Bet  Bouncer:  Mentioned  often  tlironghout  the  p^a^^  To  be 
compared  'vvitii  Foote's  Bet  BK>ssom.  Fitzgerald  tried  to  show 
that  (roldsmithhad  heen  influenced  by  Footc.  However,  as  Gold- 
smith's play  was  written  first,  Foote  must  be  the  borrower. 


ScekeII]    she   stoops  TO   CONQUER  17 

Enter  Landlord. 

Landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise 
at  the  door.  They  have  lost  their  way  upo'  the  for. 
est;  and  they  are  talking-  something  about  Mr.  Hard- 
castle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the 
gentleman  that 's  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do 
they  seem  to  be  Londoners  ? 

Landlord.  I  believe  they  may.  They  look  woundily  ^ 
like  Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I  '11 
set  them  right  in  a  twinkling.  (^Exit  Landlord.^  Gen- 
tlemen, as  they  may  n't  be  good  enough  company  for 
you,  step  down  for  a  moment,  and  I  '11  be  with  you 
in  the  squeezing  of  a  lemon.  [Exeunt  mob. 

Tony.  QAlone,^  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me 
whelp  and  hound  this  half  year.  Now,  if  I  pleased, 
1  could  be  so  revenged  upon  the  ohl  grumbletonian.^ 
But  then  I  'm  afraid,  —  afraid  of  what  ?  1  shall  soon 
be  worth  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and  let  him  frighten 
nie  out  of  that  if  he  can. 

Enter  Landlord,  conducting  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Marloio.  What  a  tedious,  uncomfortable  day  have 
we  had  of  it!  We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles 
across  the  country,  and  we  have  come  above  threescore ! 

Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccounta- 
ble reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  incpire  more 
frequently  on  the  way. 

'  Avoundily:  Exceedii>gly. 

2  grumbletonian :  In  the  seventeenth  centnry  a  nickname  for 
a  member  of  the  Country  Party  as  distinguished  from  the  Court 
Party. 


18  SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER         [Act  I 

Marlow.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to  lay 
myself  under  an  obligation  to  every  one  I  meet,  and 
often  stand  the  chance  of  an  unmannerly  answer. 

Hastings.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  t» 
receive  any  answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I  'm  told  you 
have  been  inquii'ing  for  one  Mr.  Hardeastle,  in  these 
parts.  Do  you  know  what  part  of  the  country  you 
are  in? 

Hastings.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank 
you  for  information. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

Hastings.  No,  sir  ;  but  if  you  can  inform  us  — 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the 
road  you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road 
you  came,  the  first  thing  I  have  to  inform  you  is,  that 
. —  you  have  lost  your  way. 

Marlow.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that.^ 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
the  place  from  whence  you  came  ? 

3Iarlow.  That 's  not  necessary  towards  directing  us 
where  we  are  to  go. 

f  Tony.  No  offence ;  but  question  for  question  is  all 
fair,  you  know.  —  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same 
Hardeastle  a  cross-grained,  old-fashioned,  whimsical 
fellow,  with  an  ugly  face,  a  daughter,  and  a  pretty 
son? 

Hastings.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman,  but  he 
has  the  family  you  mention. 

1  We  wanted  no  ghost:  Compare  Hamlet,  Act  I,  Sc.  6:  — 

"  There  needs  no  ghost,  my  lord,  come  from  the  grave, 
To  tell  ua  thia." 


Scene  II]    SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  19 

/"  Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  trolloping, 
talkative  niayi)ole ;  the  son,  a  pretty,  well-bred,  agree- 
able youth,  that  everybody  is  fond  of  ? 

Maiio'W.  Our  information  differs  in  this.  The  daugh- 
ter is  said  to  be  well-bred,  and  beautiful ;  the  son  an 
awkward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother's 
apron-string. 

Tony.  He-he-hem!  —  Then,  gentlemen,  all  I  have 
to  tell  you  is,  that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hardcastle's 
house  this  night,  I  believe. 

Hastings.  Unfortunate ! 

Tony.  It 's  a  damned  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty, 
dangerous  way.  Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way 
to  Mr.  Hardcastle's ;  (winhing  upon  the  Landlord,') 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  of  Quagmire  Marsh,  you  understand 
me. 

Landlord.  Master  Hardcastle's !  Laek-a-daisy,  my 
masters,  you  're  come  a  deadly  deal  wrong !  When 
you  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  you  should  have 
crossed  down  Squash-lane. 

Marlow.  Cross  down  Squash-lane? 

Landlord.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward, 
till  you  came  to  four  roads. 

Marlow.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet? 

Tony.  Ay ;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one 
of  them. 

Marloxo.  Oh  sir,  you're  facetious. 

Tony.  Then,  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go 
sideways  till  you  come  upon  Crack-skuU  Common : 
there  you  must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of  the  wheel, 
and  go  forward  till  you  come  to  farmer  Murrain's 
barn.  Coming  to  the  farmer's  barn,  you  are  to  turn  to 


20  SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER         [Act  I 

the  right/  and  then  to  the  left,  and  then  to  the  right 
about  again,  till  you  find  out  the  old  mill  — 

Marlow.  Zounds,  man  !  we  could  as  soon  find  out 
the  longitude !  ^ 

Hastings.  What 's  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Marlow.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  reception  ■, 
though  perhaps  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Landlord.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one  spare 
bed  in  the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  ray  knowledge,  that 's  taken  up  by 
three  lodgers  already.  (^After  a  pause  in  which  the  rest 
seem  disconcerted.^  I  have  hit  it.  Don't  you  think, 
Stingo,  our  landlady  could  accommodate  the  gentlemen 
by  the  fireside,  with  —  three  chairs  and  a  bolster? 

Hastings.  I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fireside. 

Marlow.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a  bol- 
ster. 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you?  —  then,  let  me  see  —  what 
if  you  go  on  a  mile  further,  to  the  Buck's  Head ;  ^  the 
old  Buck's  Head  on  the  hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in 
the  whole  county? 

Hastings.  O  ho !  so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure 
for  this  night,  however. 

*  turn  to  the  right :  Compare  Launcelot  Gobbo  in  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,  Act  II,  Sc.  2.  See  note  to  The  Good-Natured 
Man,  p.  25. 

'  find  out  the  longitude  :  The  determination  of  the  longi- 
tude was  not  easily  accomplished.  The  award  of  £20,000  offered 
by  Queen  Anne  in  1714  was  granted  to  John  Harrison  of  York- 
shire in  1765  upon  his  explanation  of  a  principle  by  which  the 
longitude  was  determined  within  18  miles. 

^  Buck's  Head  :  Among  the  famous  taverns  of  London  at 
which  Goldsmith  was  well  known  were  the  Boar's  Head  and  the 
Turk's  Head. 


Scene  II]    SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  21 

Landlord.  (Apart  to  Tony.^  Sure,  you  be  n't  send- 
ing them  to  your  father's  as  an  inn,  be  you  ? 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool  you.  Let  them  find  that  out. 
(To  them.~)  You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight  for- 
ward, till  you  come  to  a  large  old  house  by  the  road 
side.  You  '11  see  a  pair  of  large  horns  over  the  door. 
That 's  the  sign.  Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutly 
about  you. 

Hastings.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants 
can't  miss  the  way  ? 

Tony.  No,  no  ;  but  I  tell  you,  though,  the  landlord 
is  rich,  and  going  to  leave  off  business  ;  so  he  wants 
to  be  thought  a  gentleman,  saving  your  presence, 
he !  he !  he  I  Pie  '11  be  for  giving  you  his  company ; 
and,  ecod,  if  you  mind  him,  he  '11  persuade  you  that 
his  mother  was  an  alderman  and  his  aunt  a  justice  of 
peace. 

Landlord.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure ;  but 
a  keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the  whole 
country. 

Marlow.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we 
shall  want  no  further  connection.  We  are  to  turn  to 
the  right,  did  you  say  ? 

Tony.  No,  no  ;  straight  forward.  I  '11  just  step  my- 
self, and  show  you  a  piece  of  the  way.  (To  the  Land- 
lord.^ Mum! 

Landlord.  Ah,  bless  your  heart,  for  a  sweet,  pleas- 
ant—  damn'd  mischievous  son.  \Exmni 


ACT  THE   SECOND 

Scene,  An  old-fashioned  house. 

Enter  Hardcastle,  followed  by  three  or  four  awkiiard  Servants. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I  hope  you  are  perfect  in  the 
table  exercise  I  have  been  teaching  you  these  three 
days.  You  all  know  your  posts  and  your  places,  and 
can  show  that  you  have  been  used  to  good  company, 
without  ever  stirring  from  home. 

Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hardcastle.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to 
pop  out  and  stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like  frighted 
rabbits  in  a  warren. 

Omnes.  No,  no. 

Hardcastle.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken  from 
the  barn,  are  to  make  a  show  at  the  side-table ;  and 
you,  Roger,  whom  I  have  advanced  from  the  plough, 
are  to  place  yourself  behind  my  chair.  But  you  're  not 
to  stand  so,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets.  Take 
your  hands  from  your  pockets,  Roger ;  and  from  your 
head,  you  blockhead,  you.  See  how  Diggory  cariies 
his  Imnds.  They  're  a  little  too  stiff,  indeed,  but  that 's 
no  great  matter. 

Diggory.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned  to 
hold  my  hands  this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill  for 
the  militia.  And  so  being  upon  drill  — 

Hardcastle.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory. 
You  must  be  all  attention  to  the  guests.  You  must 
iiear  us  talk,  and  not  think  of  talking ;  you  must  see 


Act  II]       SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  23 

us  drink,  and  not  think  of  drinking ;  you  must  see  us 
eat,  and  not  think  of  eating. 

DUjgory.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that 's  par- 
fectly  unpossible.  Whenever  Diggory  sees  yeating  go- 
ing forward,  ecod,  he  's  always  wishing  for  a  mouthful 
himself, 

Hardcastle.  Blockhead !  Is  not  a  bellyful  in  the 
kitchen  as  good  as  a  bellyful  in  the  parlor?  Stay  your 
stomach  with  that  reflection. 

Diggory.  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I  '11  make  a 
sliift  to  stay  my  stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef  in 
the  pantry. 

Hardcastle.  Diggoi-y,  you  are  too  talkative.  —  Then, 
if  I  happen  to  say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story  at 
table,  you  must  not  all  burst  out  a-laughing,  as  if  you 
made  part  of  the  company. 

Diggory.  Then,  ecod,  your  worship  must  not  tell 
the  story  of  the  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room ;  ^  I 
can't  help  laughing  at  tl*at  —  he  !  he !  he  !  —  for  the 
soul  of  me.  We  have  laughed  at  that  these  twenty 
years  —  ha  !  ha !  ha ! 

Hardcastle.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  The  story  is  a  good  one. 
Well,  honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that ;  but  still 
remember  to  be  attentive,  Sup])ose  one  of  the  company 
should  call  for  a  glass  of  wine,  how  will  you  behave  ? 
A  glass  of  wine,  sir,  if  you  please  ( To  Diggory^  — 
Eh,  why  don't  you  move  ? 

Diggory.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  courage 

1  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room:  This  story  has  never  been 
traced,  and  it  is  possible  that  no  such  story  ever  existed.  Dobson 
suggests  {Selections  from  Steele,  p,  472)  that  Goldsmith  here  had 
in  mind  Steele's  sly  satire  on  story-telling  in  his  essays  On  Story 
Telling  and  The  Trumpet  Club. 


24  SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER       [Act  II 

till  I  see  the  eatables  and  drinkables  brought  upo'  the 
table,  and  then  I  'm  as  bauld  as  a  lion. 

Hardcastle.  What,  will  nobody  move  ? 

First  Servant.  I  'm  not  to  leave  this  pleace. 

Second  Servant.  I  'm  sure  it 's  no  pleace  of  mine. 

Third  Servant.  Nor  mine,  for  sartain. 

Diggory.   Wauns, '  and  I  'm  sure  it  canna  be  mine. 

Hardcastle.  You  numskulls  !  and  so  while,  like  your 
betters,  you  are  quarrelling  for  places,  the  guests  must 
be  starved.  Oh  you  dunces !  I  find  I  must  begin  all 
over  again  —  But  don't  I  hear  a  coach  drive  into  the 
yard  ?  To  your  posts,  you  blockheads !  I  '11  go  in  the 
meantime,  and  give  my  old  friend's  son  a  hearty  recep- 
tion at  the  gate.  [Exit  Hardcastle. 

Diggory.  By  the  elevens,  my  pleace  is  quite  gone 
out  my  head ! 

Roger.  I  know  that  ray  pleace  is  to  be  everywhere ! 

First  Servant.  Where  the  devil  is  mine  ? 

Second  Servant.  My  pleace  is  to  be  nowhere  at 
all ;  and  so  I  'ze  go  about  ray  business  ! 

[Exeunt  Servants,  running  about  as  if  frighted,  different  ways. 
Enter  Servant  with  candles,  showing  in  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Servant.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome  !  This 
way. 

Hastings.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day, 
welcome  once  more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a  clean 
room  and  a  good  fire.  Upon  ray  word,  a  very  well- 
looking  house  ;  antique  but  creditable. 

Marlow.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion.  Having 
first  ruined  the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it  at  last 
comes  to  levy  contributions  as  an  inn. 

>  Wauns;  Equivalent  to  "zounds"  or  "God's  wounds." 


Act  II]        SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  25 

Hastings.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed 
to  pay  all  these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen  a  good  side- 
board, or  a  marble  chimney-piece,  though  not  actually 
put  in  the  bill,  inflame  a  reckoning  confoundedly. 

Marlow.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all  places. 
The  only  difference  is  that  in  good  inns  you  pa}'  dearly 
for  luxuries  ;  in  bad  inns  yon  are  fleeced  and  starvedo 

Hdfitlngs.  You  have  lived  pretty  much  among  them. 
In  truth,  I  have  been  often  surprised,  that  you  who 
have  seen  so  much  of  the  world,  with  your  natural 
good  sense,  and  your  many  op2)ortunities,  could  never 
yet  acquire  a  requisite  share  of  assurance. 

Marloic.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But  tell  me, 
George,  where  could  I  have  learned  that  assurance  you 
talk  of  ?  My  life  has  been  chiefly  spent  in  a  college  or 
an  inn,  in  seclusion  from  that  lovely  part  of  the  crea- 
tion that  chiefly  teach  men  confidence.  I  don't  know 
that  I  was  ever  familiarly  acquainted  with  a  single 
modest  woman,  except  my  mother.  But  among  females 
of  another  class,  you  know  — 

Ilastmgs.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent 
enough,  of  all  conscience. 

Marlow.  They  are  of  ws,  you  know. 

Hastings.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of  repu- 
tation I  never  saw  such  an  idiot,  such  a  trembler ;  you 
look  for  all  the  world  as  if  you  wanted  an  o2ii3ortunity 
of  stealing  out  of  the  room. 

3Iarlovi.  Why,  man,  that 's  because  I  do  want  to 
steal  out  of  the  room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed  a 
resolution  to  break  the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at  any  rate. 
But  I  don't  know  how,  a  single  glance  from  a  pair  of 
fine  eyes  has  totally  overset  my  resolution.  An  impu- 


26  SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER       [Act  II 

dent  fellow  may  counterfeit  modesty,  but  I  '11  be  hanged 
if  a  modest  man  can  ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Hastings.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine  things 
to  them,  that  I  have  heard  you  lavish  upon  the  bar- 
maid of  an  inn,  or  even  a  college  bed-maker  — 

Marlow.  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine  things  to 
them.  They  freeze,  they  petrify  me.  They  may  talk  of 
a  comet,  or  a  burning  mountain,  or  some  such  baga-        , 
telle ;  but  to  me  a  modest  woman,  di-essed  out  in  all       I 
her  finery,  is  the  most  tremendous  object  of  the  whole 
creation. 

Hastings.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  I  At  this  rate,  man,  how  can 
you  ever  expect  to  marry  ? 

3farloiv.  Never  ;  unless,  as  among  kings  and  princes, 
my  bride  were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If,  indeed,  like 
an  Eastern  bridegroom,  one  were  to  be  introduced  to 
a  wife  he  never  saw  before,  it  might  be  endured.  But 
to  go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a  formal  courtship,  to- 
gether with  the  episode  of  aunts-  grandmothers,  and  l 
cousins,  and  at  last  to  blurt  out  the  broad  staring 
question  of  "  Madam,  will  you  marry  me  ?  "  No,  no, 
that 's  a  strain  much  above  me,  I  assure  you. 

Hastings.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend  be- 
having to  the  lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at  tlie 
request  of  your  father? 

Madow.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies.  Bow  very 
low  ;  answer  yes  or  no  to  all  her  demands.  But  for 
the  rest,  I  don't  think  I  shall  venture  to  look  in  her 
face  till  I  see  my  father's  again. 

Hastings.  I  'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm 
a  friend  can  be  so  cool  a  lover. 

Marlow.    To  be  explicit,   my  dear  Plattings,   my 


Act  II]        SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER  27 

chief  indueement  clown  was  to  be  instiuniental  in  for- 
warding your  happiness,  not  my  own.  Miss  Neville 
loves  you,  the  family  don't  know  you  ;  as  my  friend, 
you  are  sure  of  a  reception,  and  let  honor  do  the  rest. 

Hastlnfjs.  My  dear  Marlow !  But  I  '11  suppress  the 
emotion.  Were  I  a  wi-etch,  meanly  seeking-  to  carry 
off  a  fortune,  you  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world 
I  would  apply  to  for  assistance.  But  Miss  Neville's 
person  is  all  I  ask,  and  that  is  mine,  both  from  her 
deceased  father's  consent,  and  her  own  inclination. 

Marloio.  Happy  man  I  you  have  talents  and  art  to 
captivate  any  woman.  I  'm  doomed  to  adore  the  sex, 
and  yet  to  converse  with  the  only  part  of  it  I  despise. 
This  stammer  in  my  address,  and  this  awkward  unpre- 
possessing visage  of  mine,  can  never  permit  me  to  soar 
above  the  reach  of  a  milliner's  'prentice,  or  one  of  the 
Duchesses  of  Drury  Lane.  ^  Pshaw !  this  fellow  here 
to  interrujit  us. 

Enter  Ilardcastle."^ 

Ilardcastle.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  Which  is  Mr.  Marlow?  Sir, you  are  heartily 
welcome.  It's  not  my   way,   you  see,   to   receive  my 

•  Duchesses  of  Drury  Lane  :  Compare  "drabs  .  .  .  of  Drnry 
Lniie"  ill  Goldsmith's  Description  of  an  Ant /i or' s  Bedchamber. 
Women  of  the  town.  At  this  time  the  theatres  were  well  appor- 
tioned off  for  the  different  classes  of  society.  In  some  personal 
reminiscences  of  Macklin  (Kirknian's  Life)  ihat  actor  says  : 
"  None  hnt  people  of  independent  fortune,  and  avowed  rank, 
ever  presumed  to  f^o  into  the  boxes.  .  .  .  The  women  of  the  town, 
who  frequented  the  theatre,  were  tlien  few  in  number,  except  ir 
the  galleries,  and  these  few  occupied  two  or  three  upper  boxes  on 
€ach  side  of  the  house." 

'  Enter  Hardcastle  :  Goldsmith  himself  had  once  niistakeii 
a  country  mansion  for  an  inn.    (Forster's  Life,  Book  I,  chap,  i.) 


28  SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER        [Act  II 

friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  I  like  to  give  them 
a  hearty  reception,  in  the  okl  style,  at  my  gate.  I  like 
to  see  their  horses  and  trunks  taken  care  of. 

Marloto.  QAside.')  He  has  got  our  names  from  the 
servants  already.  (7b  him.}  We  approve  your  caution 
and  hospitality,  sir,  (  To  Hastings.^  I  have  been  think- 
ing, George,  of  changing  our  travelling  dresses  in 
the  morning.  I  am  grown  confoundedly  ashamed  of 
mine. 

Hardcastle.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you  '11  use  no  cere- 
mony in  this  house. 

Hastings.  I  fancy,  Charles,  you  're  right ;  the  first 
blow  is  half  the  battle.  I  intend  opening  the  campaign 
with  the  white  and  gold. 

Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow  —  Mr.  Hastings  —  gentle- 
men, pray  be  under  no  restraint  in  this  house.  This 
is  Liberty -hall,  gentlemen.  You  may  do  just  as  you 
please  here. 

Marlow.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign  too 
fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is 
over.  I  think  to  reserve  the  embroidery  to  secure  a 
retreat. 

Hardcastle.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Marlow, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when 
we  went  to  besiege  Denain.^  He  first  summoned  the 
garrison  — 

Marlow.  Don't  you  think  the  ventre  d'or  waist- 
coat will  do  with  the  plain  brown  ? 

'  Denain  :  Reference  is  here  to  the  battle  between  Marshal 
Villars  and  the  allied  armies  under  Prince  Eugene  (1712).  (See 
note  for  p.  6.)  Goldsmith's  friend  Oglethorpe  had  not  been 
there,  but  he  must  have  heard  accounts  of  it  from  Marlbor- 
ough. 


Act  II]        SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  29 

Hardcastle.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which 
might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men  — 

Hastings.  I  think  not :  brown  and  yellow  mix  but 
very  poorly. 

Hardcastle.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
he  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of 
about  five  thousand  men  — 

Marlow.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hardcastle.  Whicii  might  consist  of  about  five 
thousand  men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammuni- 
tion, and  other  implements  of  war.  "  Now,"  says  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough  to  George  Brooks,  that  stood 
next  to  him — you  must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks 
—  "  1  '11  pawn  my  dukedom,"  says  he,  "  but  1  take  that 
garrison  without  spilling  a  drop  of  blood."    So  — ■ 

Marlow.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us  a 
glass  of  punch  in  the  meantime :  it  would  help  us  to 
carry  on  the  siege  with  vigor. 

Hardcastle.  Punch,  sir!  (^Aside.')  This  is  the 
most  unaccountable  kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met  with! 

Marlov).  Yes,  sir,  punch !  A  glass  of  warm  punch, 
after  our  journey,  will  be  comfortable.  This  is  Lib- 
erty-hall, you  know. 

Hardcastle.    Here  's  cup,  sir. 

Marlow.  QAside.^  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty- 
hall,  will  only  let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hardcastle.  ( Taking  the  cup.')  I  hope  you  '11  find 
it  to  your  mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my  own 
hands,  and  I  believe  you  '11  own  the  ingredients  are 
tolerable.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir? 
Here,  Mr.  Marlow,  here  is  to  our  better  acquaintance. 
{^Drinks.) 


30  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER       [Act  II 

Marlow.  (Aside.^  A  very  impudent  fellow  thisl 
But  he  's  a  character,  and  1  '11  humor  him  a  little. 
Sir,  my  service  to  you.    (^Drinks. ^ 

Hastings.  (^Aslde.^  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give 
us  his  company,  and  forgets  that  he  's  an  innkeeper 
before  he  has  learned  to  be  a  gentleman. 

Marlow.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old 
friend,  1  suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in 
this  part  of  the  country.  Warm  work,  now  and  then, 
at  elections,  I  suppose. 

Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work 
over.  Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient 
of  electing  each  other,  there  is  no  business  "  for  us 
that  sell  ale." 

Hastings.  So,  then,  you  have  no  turn  for  politics, 
I  find. 

Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a  time, 
indeed,  I  fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of  govern- 
ment, like  other  people ;  biat,  finding  myself  every  day 
gi-ow  more  angry,  and  the  government  growing  no 
better,  I  left  it  to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I  no  more 
trouble  my  head  about  Hyder  Ally,  or  Ally  Cawn,i 
than  about  AUy  Croaker.^    Sir,  my  service  to  you. 

'  Hyder  Ally,  or  Ally  Cawn  :  Hjder  Ali  Khan  (1728- 
82)  was  Maharajah  of  Mysore  in  India.  He  defeated  the  Eng- 
lish in  1767.  Hardcastle  in  speaking  of  Hyder  Ali  and  Ali  Khan 
is  undoubtedly  facetiously  speaking  of  the  same  man,  though 
the  latter  term  would  apply  to  any  native  Indian  ruler  of  the 
same  rank.    See  Burke's  Speech  on  the  Nabob  of  ArcoCs  Debts. 

^  Ally  Croaker  :  A  popular  Irish  song.  See  chap,  v  of  Be- 
Unda,  by  Miss  Edgeworth  :  — 

Tliere  was  a  young  man  in  BallinacT.a8y, 
Who  wanted  a  wife  to  make  Lini  unusy, 
Aud  thus  iu  gentle  terms  be  spoke  her, 
Amh,  rlU  you  uiarry  lue,  my  dear  Ally  Cioker. 


Act  II]       SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  31 

Hastings.  So  that  with  eating  above  stairs,  and 
drinking  below,  with  receiving  your  friends  within, 
and  amusing  tliem  without,  you  lead  a  good,  pleasant, 
bustling  life  of  it. 

Ilardcastle.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that 's  cer- 
tain. Plalf  the  differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted 
in  this  very  parlor. 

3Iarloio.  (^After  drbiJcinr/.^  And  you  have  an  ar- 
gument in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than  any 
in  Westminster-hall  ' 

Ilardcastle.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a  little 
philosophy. 

Marlow.  (^Aside.^  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  heard  of  an  innkeeper's  philosophy. 

Hastings.  So,  then,  like  an  experienced  general, 
you  attack  them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find  their 
reason  manageable,  you  attack  it  with  your  philosophy; 
if  you  find  they  have  no  reason,  you  attack  them  with 
this.    Here  's  your  health,  my  philosopher.    (^Drinks.') 

Hardcastle.  Good,  very  good,  thank  you;  ha!  ha! 
ha!  Your  generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince 
Eugene,  when  he  fought  the  Turks  at  the  battle  of 
Belgrade.^  You  shall  hear  — 

•  "Westminster  Hall  :  Originally  the  palace  of  the  kings. 
Used  by  Houses  of  Parliament  and  for  centuries  as  the  seat 
of  the  law  courts.  Here  Ann  Boleyn,  Charles  I,  and  Warren 
Hastings  were  tried. 

2  battle  of  Belgrade  :  Belgrade  was  taken  by  Prince  Eugene 
in  1717.  At  the  dinner  above  mentioned,  April  10,  1772  (p.  6), 
"Dr.  Johnson  said,  '  Pray,  General,  give  us  an  account  of  the 
liege  of  Belgrade.'  Upon  which  the  General,  pouring  a  little 
wine  upon  the  table,  described  everything  with  a  wet  finger: 
'Here  we  were,  here  were  the  Turks,'  &c.  &c.  Johnson  listened 
with  the  closest  attention."    (Hill's  Boswell,  vol.  ii,  p.  207.) 


32  SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER       [Act  II 

Marlow.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  be- 
lieve it 's  almost  time  to  talk  about  supj)er.  What  has 
your  philosophy  got  in  the  house  for  supper? 

Hardcastle.  For  supper,  sir !  (^Aside.^  Was  ever 
such  a  request  to  a  man  in  his  own  house ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir;  I  begin  to  feel  an 
appetite.  I  shall  make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the 
larder,  I  promise  you. 

Hardcastle.  (^Aside.')  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure 
never  my  eyes  beheld.  (7b  him.^  Why,  really,  sir, 
as  for  supper,  I  can't  well  tell.  My  Dorothy  and  the 
cook-maid  settle  these  things  between  them.  I  leave 
these  kind  of  things  entirely  to  them. 

Marloiv.  You  do,  do  you? 

Hardcastle.  Entirely.  By  the  bye,  I  believe  they 
are  in  actual  consultation  upon  what 's  for  supper  this 
moment  in  the  kitchen. 

Marlov%  Then  I  beg  they  '11  admit  me  as  one  of 
their  privy-council.  It 's  a  way  I  have  got.  W^hen  I 
travel  I  always  choose  to  regulate  my  own  supper.  Let 
the  cook  be  called.  No  offence,  I  hope,  sir. 

Hardcastle.  Oh,  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least ;  yet  I 
don't  know  how ;  our  Bridget,  the  cook-maid,  is  not 
very  communicative  upon  these  occasions.  Should 
we  send  for  her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out  of  the 
house. 

Hastings.  Let 's  see  your  list  of  the  larder,  then.  I 
ask  it  as  a  favor.  I  always  match  my  appetite  to  my 
bill  of  fare. 

Marlow.  (^To  Hardcastle^  who  loohs  at  them  with 
surprise.^  Sir,  he 's  very  right,  and  it 's  my  way, 
too. 


i 


Act  II]        SHE   STOOPS   TO  CONQUER  33 

Hardcastle.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here. 
Here,  Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night's 
supper ;  I  believe  it 's  drawn  out.  Your  manner,  Mr. 
Hastings,  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle,  Colonel  Wal- 
lop. It  was  a  saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was  sure  of 
his  supper  till  he  had  eaten  it. 

Hastings.    QAside.')  All  upon  the  high  ropes  !  Hil 
uncle  a  colonel !   We  shall   soon  hear  of   his  mother 
being  a  justice  of  peace. '    But  let 's  hear  the  bill  of 
fare. 

Marloto.  (^P  em  sing. ^  What 's  here  ?  For  the  first 
course ;  for  the  second  course  ;  for  the  dessert.  The 
devil,  sir,  do  you  think  we  have  brought  down  the 
whole  Joiners'  Company,  or  the  Corporation  of  Bed- 
foid,-  to  eat  np  such  a  supper?  Two  or  three  little 
things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hastings.  But  let 's  hear  it. 

Marloto.  (^Reading .^  "  For  the  first  course,  at  the 
top,  a  pig,  and  prune  sauce." 

Hastings.  Damn  your  pig,  I  say  ! 

Marloto.  And  damn  your  prune  sauce,  say  I ! 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are 
hungry,  pig  with  prune  sauce  is  very  good  eating. 

Marloti).  "At  the  bottom,  a  calf's  tongue  and 
brains." 

Hastings.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my 
good  sir  ;   I  don't  like  them. 

'  his  mother  being  a  justice  of  peace  :  Hastings  here  re- 
peats Tonj-'s  warning  at  the  end  of  Act  I,  "  his  aunt  a  justice  of 
peace." 

2  Joiners'  Company,  or  the  Corporation  at  Bedford  : 
Goldsmith  makes  another  sling  at  the  appetites  of  city  burgesses 
:n  his  epilogue,   "  E'en  common-councilmeu  forget  to  eat." 


34  SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER       [Act  II 

Marlow.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by  them- 
selves.   I  do. 

Ilardcastle.  (^Aside.^  Their  impudence  confounds 
pae.  (7b  them.')  Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests  ;  make 
what  alterations  you  please.  Is  there  anything  else 
you  wish  to  retrench,  or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

Marlow.  "  Item :  a  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and 
sausages,  a  Florentine,  a  shaking  pudding,  and  a  dish 
of  tiff  —  taff  —  taffety  cream  I  " 

Hastings.  Confound  your  made  dishes !  I  shall  be 
as  much  at  a  loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and 
yellow  dinner  at  the  French  Ambassador's  table.  I  'm 
for  plain  eating. 

Hardcastle.  I  'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have 
nothing  you  like ;  but  if  there  be  anything  you  have 
a  particular  fancy  to  — 

Marlotv.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so 
exquisite,  that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as 
another.  Send  us  what  you  please.  So  much  for 
supper.  And  now  to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  and 
properly  taken  care  of. 

Hardcastle.  I  entreat  you  '11  leave  all  that  to  me. 
You  shall  not  stir  a  step. 

Marlow.  Leave  that  to  you  !  I  protest,  sir,  you 
must  excuse  me ;  I  always  look  to  these  things 
myself. 

Hardcastle,  I  must  insist,  sir,  you  '11  make  yourself 
easy  on  that  head. 

Marlow.  You  see  I  am  resolved  on  it.  (-4sic?e.)  A 
very  troublesome  fellow  this,  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  sir,  I  'm  resolved  at  least  to  at- 
tend you.    (^Aside.)  This  may  be  modern  modesty, 


I 


Act  II]        SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  36 

but  I  never  saw  anything  look  so  like  old-fashioned 

impudence.  [Exeunt  Marlow  and  Hardcasde. 

Hastings.  QAlone.')  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civili- 
ties begiu  to  grow  troublesome.  But  who  can  be  an- 
gry at  those  assiduities  which  are  meant  to  please 
him  ?  Ha!  what  do  I  see?  Miss  Neville,  by  all  that 's 
happy  ! 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

3Ilss  Neville.  My  dear  Hastings !  To  what  unex- 
pected good  fortune,  to  what  accident,  am  I  to  as- 
cribe this  happy  meeting? 

Hastings.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question,  as 
I  could  never  have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest  Con- 
stance at  an  inn. 

Miss  Neville,  An  inn !  sure  you  mistake !  My 
aunt,  my  guardian,  lives  here.  What  could  induce 
you  to  think  this  house  an  inn  ? 

Hastings.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whona  I 
came  down,  and  I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an  inn, 
I  assure  you.  A  young  fellow,  whom  we  accidentally 
met  at  a  house  hard  by,  directed  us  hither. 

Miss  Neville.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my  hope- 
ful cousin's  tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk 
so  often  ;  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hastings.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you?  he 
of  whom  I  have  such  just  apprehensions  ? 

3Ilss  Neville.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him, 
I  assure  you.  You  'd  adore  him  if  you  knew  how 
heartily  he  despises  me.  My  aunt  knows  it  too,  and 
has  undertaken  to  court  me  for  him,  and  actually  be- 
gins to  think  she  has  made  a  conquest. 

Hastings.  Thou  dear  dissembler  I  You  must  know, 


36  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER        [Act  II 

my  Constance,  I  have  just  seized  this  happy  opportu- 
nity of  my  friend's  visit  here  to  get  admittance  into 
the  family.  The  horses  that  carried  us  down  are  now 
fatigued  with  their  journey,  but  they  '11  soon  be  re- 
freshed ;  and  then,  if  my  dearest  girl  will  trust  in  her 
faithful  Hastings,  we  shall  soon  be  landed  in  France, 
where  even  among  slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are 
respected.* 

3I0SS  Neville.  I  have  often  told  you  that,  though 
ready  to  obey  you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  fortune 
behind  with  reluctance.  The  greatest  part  of  it  was 
left  me  by  my  uncle,  the  India  director,  and  chiefly 
consists  in  jewels.  I  have  been  for  some  time  persuad- 
ing my  aunt  to  let  me  wear  them.  I  fancy  I  'm  very  near 
succeeding.  The  instant  they  are  put  into  my  posses- 
sion, you  shall  find  me  ready  to  make  them  and  myself 
yours. 

Hastings.  Perish  the  baubles !  Your  person  is  all 
I  desire.  In  the  meantime,  my  friend  Marlow  must 
not  be  let  into  his  mistake.  I  know  the  strange  re- 
serve of  his  temper  is  such  that,  if  abruptly  informed 
of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit  the  house  before  our  plan 
was  ripe  for  execution. 

>  the  laws  of  marriage  are  respected  :  Rightly  or  wrongly 
these  words  were  believed  to  have  reference  to  the  King's  issu- 
ance of  the  Royal  Marriage  Act  after  tlie  marriage  of  the  Duke 
of  Gloucester  with  Lady  Waldegrave.  The  Duke  of  Glouccstei 
sat  in  a  box  on  the  first  night  of  the  plaj',  and  when  the  words 
were  spoken  received  an  ovation  from  the  audience.  Goldsmith 
never  admitted  that  he  had  intended  any  reference  to  current 
events.  Boswell  tells  a  pretty  story  apropos  of  these  words  con- 
cerning that  "  Paoli  of  Corsica "  who  was  mentioned  in  The 
Good-Natured  Man.  (Hill's  Boswell,  vol.  ii,  p.  287.) 


ActIIJ       she  stoops   to   conquer  37 

Miss  Neville.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the 
deception?   Miss   Hardeastle   is    just    returned    from 
walking ;  what  if  we  still  continue  to  deceive  him? 
—  This,  this  way —  (^They  confer.^ 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people  teasf 
me  beyond  bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think  it  ih 
manners  to  leave  me  alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  onlj 
himself  but  his  old-fashioned  wife  on  my  back.  They 
talk  of  coming  to  sup  with  us  too  ;  and  then,  I  !?uj> 
pose,  we  are  to  run  the  gauntlet  through  all  the  rest 
of  the  family.  —  What  have  we  got  here  ? 

Hastings.  My  dear  Charles !  Let  me  congratulate 
you  !  The  most  fortunate  accident !  Who  do  you  think 
is  just  alighted  ? 

Marlow.  Cannot  guess. 

Hastings.  Our  mistresses,  boy.  Miss  Hardeastle 
and  Miss  Neville.  Give  me  leave  to  introduce  Miss 
Constance  Neville  to  your  acquaintance.  Happening 
to  dine  in  the  neighborhood,  they  called  on  their  re- 
turn to  take  fresh  horses  here.  Miss  Hardeastle  has 
just  stepped  into  the  next  room,  and  will  be  back  in 
an  instant.  Was  n't  it  lucky  ?  eh  I 

Marloio.  (^Aside.}  I  have  just  been  mortified 
enough  of  all  conscience,  and  here  comes  something  to 
eomplete  iny  embarrassment. 

Hastif^gs.  Well,  but  was  n't  it  the  most  fortunate 
thing  in  the  world? 

3farlow.  Oh,  yes.  Very  fortunate  —  a  most  joyfii] 
encounter  —  But  our  dresses,  George,  you  know,  are 
in  disorder — What  if  we  should  postpone  the  liappi- 
ness  till  to-uiorrow  ?  —  to-morrow  at  her  own  house  -- 


38  SHE   STOOPS   TO  CONQUER       [Act  II 

It  will  be  every  bit  as  convenient  —  and  rather  more 
respectful  —  To-morrow  let  it  be.  [Offering  to  go. 

Hastings.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your  ceremony  will 
displease  her.  The  disorder  of  your  dress  will  show 
the  ardor  of  your  impatience.  Besides,  she  knows  you 
are  in  the  house,  and  will  permit  you  to  see  iier. 

Marloio.  Oh,  the  devil !  how  shall  I  support  it  ? 
Hem !  hem !  Hastings,  you  must  not  go.  You  are  to 
assist  me,  you  know.  I  shall  be  confoundedly  ridicu- 
lous. Yet,  hang  it,  I  '11  take  courage  !   Hem  ! 

Hastings.  Pshaw,  man !  it 's  but  the  first  plunge, 
and  all 's  over !   She  's  but  a  woman,  you  know. 

Marlow.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread  most 
to  encounter ! 

Enter  Miss  Hurdcastle,  as  returned  from  walking,  a  bonnet,  ^c 

Hastings.  (^Introducing  them.)  Miss  Hardcastle, 
Mr.  Marlow ;  I  m  proud  of  bringing  two  persons  of 
such  merit  together,  that  only  want  to  know,  to  esteem 
each  other. 

Miss  Hurdcastle.  (^Aside.')  Now  for  meeting  my 
modest  gentleman  with  a  demure  face,  and  quite  in  his 
own  manner.  (^After  a  pause,  in  which  he  appears 
very  uneasg  and  disconcerted.)  I  'm  glad  of  your  safe 
arrival,  sir.  I  'm  told  you  had  some  accidents  by  the 
way. 

Marlow.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had  some. 
Yes,  madam,  a  good  many  accidents,  but  shoidd  be 
sorry  —  madam —  or  rather  glad  of  any  accidents  — 
that  are  so  agreeably  concluded.  Hem  ! 

Hastings.  (^To  hijn.)  You  never  spoke  better  in 
your  whole  life.  Keep  it  up,  and  I  '11  insure  you  the 
^ctory. 


AcTlIj       SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  39 

3fiss  Hardcastle.  1  'm  afriiid  you  flatter,  sir»  You 
that  liave  seen  so  much  of  the  finest  company,  can 
find  little  entertainment  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the 
country. 

Marlow.  (^Gathering  courage.^  I  have  lived,  indeed, 
in  the  world,  madam ;  but  I  have  kept  very  little  com- 
pany. I  have  been  but  an  observer  upon  life,  madam, 
while  others  were  enjoying  it. 

3Iiss  Neville.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  way  to 
enjoy  it  at  last. 

Hastings.  (To  him.')  Cicero  never  spoke  better. 
Once  more,  and  you  are  confirmed  in  assurance  for 
ever. 

Harlow.  (To  him.')  Hem!  stand  by  me  then,  and 
when  I  'm  down,  throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me  up 
again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon  life, 
were,  I  fear,  disagreeably  employed,  since  you  must 
have  had  much  more  to  censure  than  to  approve. 

Marloio.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always  willing 
to  be  amused.  The  folly  of  most  people  is  rather  an 
object  of  mirth  than  uneasiness. 

Hastings.  (To  him.)  Bravo,  bravo.  Never  spoke 
so  well  in  yonv  whole  life.  Well,  Miss  Hardcastle,  I 
see  that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow  are  going  to  be  verj 
good  company.  I  believe  our  being  here  will  but 
embarrass  the  interview. 

Marlow.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  AVe  like 
your  company  of  all  things.  (7b  him.)  Zounds, 
George,  sure  you  won't  go  ?  How  can  you  leave  us  ? 

Hastings.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversation, 
BO  we  '11  retire  to  the  next  room.   (  To  him.)  You  don't 


40  SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER       [Act  II 

consider,  man,  that  we  are  to  manage  a  little  tete-a-tete 

of  our  own.  [Exeunt  Hastings  with  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (^After  a  pause. ^  But  you  Lave 
not  been  wholly  an  observer,  I  presume,  sir.  The  ladies, 
1  should  hope,  have  employed  some  part  of  your 
addresses. 

Marloic.  (^Relapsing  into  timidity.^  Pardon  nie, 
madam,  I  —  I  —  1  —  as  yet  have  studied  —  only  — 
to  —  deserve  them. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  that,  some  say,  is  the  very 
worst  way  to  obtain  them. 

Marlow.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love  to  converse 
only  with  the  more  grave  and  sensible  part  of  the  sex. 
—  But  I  'm  afraid  I  grow  tiresome. 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Not  at  all,  sir ;  there  is  nothing 
I  like  so  much  as  grave  conversation  myself ;  I  could 
hear  it  for  ever.  Indeed  I  have  often  been  surprised 
how  a  man  of  sentiment  *  could  ever  admire  those  light, 
airy  pleasures,  where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

Marlow.  It 's  —  a  disease  —  of  the  mind,  madam. 
In  the  variety  of  tastes  there  must  be  some  who, 
wanting  a  relish  —  for  —  um  —  a  —  um  — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you,  sir.  There  must 
be  some  who,  wanting  a  relish  for  refined  pleasures, 
pretend  to  despise  what  they  are  incapable  of  tasting. 

Marlow.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely  better 
expressed.  And  1  can't  help  observing  —  a  — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (^Aside.')  Who  could  ever  suppose 
this  fellow  impudent  upon  some  occasions !  (^To  him.') 
You  were  going  to  observe,  sir,  — 

*  a  man  of  sentiment :  A  sly  reference  to  tlie  popular  com- 
edy. See  also  Miss  Uardcastle's  Hue,  "  a  sober,  sentimental  in- 
terview," page  42. 


Act  II]       SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  41 

Marlow.  I  was  observing,  madam  —  I  protest, 
madam,  I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  observe. 

JIlss  Ilcn'dcastle.  (^Aside.^  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  (7b 
h'un.')  You  were  observing,  sir,  that  in  this  age  of 
hypocrisy,  —  something  about  hypocrisy,  sir. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypocrisy  there 
are  few  who,  upon  strict  inquiry,  do  not  —  a  —  a  — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you  perfectly,  sir. 

Marloio.  (^Aside.^  Egad !  and  that 's  more  than  I 
do  myself ! 

JIlss  Hardcastle.  You  mean  that  in  this  hypocriti- 
cal age  there  are  few  who  do  not  condemn  in  public 
what  they  practice  in  private ;  and  think  they  pay 
every  debt  to  virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Marlow.  True,  madam ;  those  who  have  most  virtue 
in  their  mouths  have  least  of  it  in  their  bosoms.  But 
I  'm  sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

3riss  Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least,  sir  ;  there 's  some- 
thing so  agreeable  and  spirited  in  your  manner,  such 
life  and  force,  —  pi'ay,  sir,  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam,  I  was  saying  —  that  there 
are  some  occasions  —  when  a  total  want  of  courage, 
madam,  destroys  all  the  —  and  puts  us  —  upon  —  a 

—  a  — a  — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  agree  with  you  entirely ;  a  want 
of  courage  upon  some  occasions,  assumes  the  appear- 
ance of  ignorance,  and  betrays  us  when  we  most  want 
to  excel.  I  beg  you  '11  proceed. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.    Morally  speaking,  madam 

—  But  I  see  Miss  Neville   expecting  us  in  the  next 
room.  I  would  not  intrude  for  the  world. 

Miss   Hardcastle.     I    protest,    sir,    I    never    was 


42  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER       [Act  II 

more  agreeably  entertained  in  all  my  life.  Pray 
go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam,  I  was  —  But  she  beckons 
us  to  join  her.  Madam,  shall  I  do  myseK  the  honor  to 
attend  you  ? 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Well,  then,  I  '11  follow. 

Marloiv.  (^Aslde.')  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue 
has  done  for  me.  [Exit. 

Hiss  Hardcastle.  (^Alone.^  Ha!  ha!  ha  I  Was  there 
ever  such  a  sober,  sentimental  interview  ?  I  'm  cer- 
tain he  scarce  looked  in  my  face  the  whole  time.  Yet 
the  fellow,  but  for  his  unaccountable  bashfulness,  is 
pretty  well,  too.  He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so  buried 
in  his  fears,  that  it  fatigues  one  more  than  ignorance. 
If  I  could  teach  him  a  little  confidence,  it  would  be 
doing  somebody  that  I  know  of  a  piece  of  service. 
But  who  is  that  somebody  ?  That,  faith,  is  a  question 
I  can  scarce  answer.  [Exit. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville,  followed  by  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and 
Hastings. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  cousin  Con  ?  I 
wonder  you  're  not  ashamed  to  be  so  ver}^  engaging. 

Miss  Neville.  1  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to 
one's  own  relations,  and  not  be  to  blame. 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation  you 
want  to  make  me,  though ;  but  it  won't  do.  I  tell  you, 
cousin  Con,  it  won't  do ;  so  I  beg  you  '11  keep  your 
distance.  I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 

[She  follou-s,  coquetting  him  to  the  hack  scene. 

3Irs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you 
are  very  entertaining.  There's  nothing  in  the  world  I 
love  to  talk  of  so  much  as  London,  and  the  fashions, 
though  1  was  never  there  myself. 


ActTI]       she   stoops  to   conquer  43 

Hastings.  Never  there!  You  amazG  me!  From 
your  air  and  manner,  I  concluded  you  had  been  bred 
all  your  life  either  at  Kanelagh,  St.  James's,  or  Tower 
Wharf.  1 

Mrs.  Hurdcastle.  Oh,  sir,  you  're  only  pleased  to 
say  so.  We  country  persons  can  have  no  manner  at 
all.  1  'm  in  love  with  the  town,  and  that  serves  to 
raise  me  above  some  of  our  neighboring  rustics;  but 
who  can  have  a  manner,  that  has  never  seen  the  Pan- 
theon,^ the  Grotto  Gardens,'*  the  Borough,''  and  such 
places,  where  the  nobility  chiefly  resort  ?  All  I  can  do 

'  Ranelagh,  St.  James's,  or  Tow^er  Wharf:  Ranelagh  was 
built  ill  1742  at  Clielsea,  and  was  long  a  fashionable  resort. 
Johnson  considered  it  "the  finest  thing  lie  had  ever  seen."  St. 
James's  may  refer  to  the  park,  the  square,  or  the  parish,  all  of 
which  were  resorts  of  aristocracy.  Tower  Wharf  was  near  the 
Tower  in  the  lower  part  of  town.  It  was  an  ungenteel  trick  that 
Hastings  was  playing  on  Mrs.  Hardcastle  thus  to  mingle  the 
high-toned  with  the  vulgar.  She,  however,  unconsciously  goe3 
his  wit  one  better  in  her  next  speech. 

^  Pantheon:  This  building  at  359  Oxford  Street  was  opened 
JaniiaiT,  1772.  Its  chief  feature  was  a  rotunda  promenade  room. 
Johnson  thought  it  inferior  to  Ranelagh,  but  Walpole  wrote 
July  29,  1773,  "The  Pantheon  is  still  the  most  beautiful  edifice 
in  England." 

'  Grotto  Gardens:  These  gardens  were  also  known  as  Jenny's 
Whim;  it  is  said  that  they  were  so  named  by  Johnson  (W^heat- 
ley  and  Cunningham,  London  Past  and  Present,  vol.  ii,  p.  305). 
"  The  lower  sort  of  people  have  their  Ranelaghs  and  their  Vaux- 
halls  as  well  as  the  quality.  Pierrot's  inimitable  Grotto  may  be 
seen  for  only  calling  for  a  pot  of  beer."  The  Connoisseur,  May  15, 
1775. 

^  Borough:  The  borough  of  South wark,  one  of  the  earliest 
borouglis  in  London.  Southwark  was  the  thoroughfare  between 
London  and  the  south,  and  there  were  many  inns,  though  the 
borough  was  not  of  the  highest  class  of  population  The  comedy 
here  lies  in  the  mingling  of  the  resorts  of  high  and  low  life. 


44  SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER       [Act  II 

is  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand.  I  take  care  to 
know  every  tete-a-tete  from  the  Scandalous  Magazine,^ 
and  have  all  the  fashions,  as  they  come  out,  in  a  letter 
from  the  two  Miss  Rickets  of  Crooked-lane.  Pray,  how 
do  you  like  tliis  head,  Mr.  Hastings  ? 

Hastings.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagee,  upon  my 
word,  madam.   Your  f riseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I  suppose  ? 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  I  dressed,  it  myself  from 
a  print  in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum-hooh  ^  for  the  last 
year. 

Hastings.  Indeed !  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box,^  at 
the  play-house,  would  draw  as  many  gazers  as  my 
Lady  Mayoress  at  a  city  ball. 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began,* 
there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman  ; 
so  one  must  dress  a  little  particular,  or  one  may  es- 
C2i\)Q  in  the  crowd. 

Hastings.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case,  madam, 
in  any  dress.   (^Bowing.^ 

•  Scandalous  Magazine:  The  journalistic  practice  of  the 
age  was  very  free  in  dealing  with  the  reputations  of  men  and 
women.  The  tete-a-tetea  of  The  Town  and  Country  Magazine  were 
especially  daring.  See  School  for  Scandal,  Act.  1,  Sc.  1.  In  these 
words  Goldsmith  was  possibly  playing  on  Scan.  Mag.,  the  ab- 
breviation of  the  Latin  scandalum  magnatum.  See  Sheridan's 
Critic,  Act  I. 

2  Ladies'  Memorandum-book :  The  best-known  annual 
diary  was  The  Ladies'  Diary :  or  the  Women's  Almanack;  first 
published  in  1704,  and  continuing  throughout  the  nineteenth 
century. 

°  side-box:  See  note  on  page  17,  The  Good-Natured  Man. 

*  since  inoculation  began  :  Inoculation  was  introduced  by 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  in  1721.  In  1763  Walpole  wrote 
to  Sir  Horace  Manu  that  the  great  preservative  bad  been 
stoutly  opposed. 


Act  II]       SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  45 

3Irs.  Ilardcastle.  Yet  what  signifies  my  dressing, 
when  I  have  such  a  piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side  as 
Mr.  Hardcastle  ?  All  I  can  say  will  never  argue  down 
a  single  button  from  his  clothes.'  I  have  often  wanted 
him  to  throw  olf  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he  was 
bald  to  plaster  it  over,  like  my  Lord  Pately,  with  powder. 

Hastings.  You  are  right,  madam  ;  for,  as  among 
the  ladies  there  are  none  ugly,  so  among  the  men 
there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  But  what  do  you  think  his  answer 
was  ?  Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic  vivacit}^,  he  said  I 
only  wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  wig  to  convert  it 
into  a  tete  for  my  own  wearing.^ 

Hastings.  Intolerable  !  At  your  age  you  may  wear 
what  you  please,  and  it  must  becomxC  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you 
take  to  be  the  most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 

Hastings.  Some  time  ago  forty  was  all  the  mode  ; 
but  I  'm  told  the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up  fifty  for 
the  ensuing  winter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Seriously  ?  Then  I  shall  be  too 
young  for  the  fashion. 

Hastings.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels  till 
she  's  past  forty.  For  instance,  Miss  there,  in  a  polite 
circle,  would  be  considered  as  a  child,  as  a  mere 
maker  of  samplers. 

'  argue  down  a  single  button  from  his  clothes :  The 
coats,  under  tlie  iufliience  of  the  macaronies,  were  so  short  ia 
front  as  not  to  reach  to  the  bottom  of  the  waistcoat  by  three 
inches.  See  Georgiana  Hill,  A  History  of  English  Dress,  vol.  ii. 

'  tete  for  my  ow^n  wearing  :  In  1772  the  print  called 
A  Maccaroni  Courtship  shows  that  women's  wigs  displayed  the 
same  toupee  and  curls  as  the  men's. 


46  SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER       [Act  II 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  yet,  Mistress  Niece  thinks 
herself  as  much  a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels, 
as  the  oldest  of  us  all. 

Hastings.  Your  niece,  is  she  ?  And  that  young 
gentleman,  —  a  brother  of  yours,  I  should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  contracted 
to  each  other.  Observe  their  little  sports.  They  fall  in 
and  out  ten  times  a  day,  as  if  they  were  man  and  wife 
already.  (To  them.')  Well,  Tony,  child,  what  soft 
things  are  you  saying  to  your  cousin  Constance  this 
evening  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things ;  but  that 
it 's  very  hard  to  be  followed  about  so.  Ecod !  I've 
not  a  place  in  the  house  now  that 's  left  to  myself,  but 
the  stable. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my  dear. 
He  's  in  another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Neville.  There  's  something  generous  in  my 
cousin's  manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces,  to  be  for- 
given in  private. 

Tony.  That 's  a  damned  confounded  —  crack. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ah,  he  's  a  sly  one !  Don't  you 
think  they  're  like  each  other  about  the  mouth,  Mr. 
Hastings?  The  Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a  T.  They  're  of 
a  size,  too.  Back  to  back,  my  pretties,  that  Mr.  Has- 
tings may  see  you.  Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell  you. 
(^Measuring  .^ 

Miss  Neville.  Oh,  lud !  he  has  almost  cracked  my 
head. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  the  monster !  For  shame, 
Tony.  You  a  man,  and  behave  so! 


Act  II]        SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  47 

Tony.  If  I  'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin.  Ecod, 
I  '11  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

3Trs.  Hardcastle.  Is  this,  ungi-ateful  boy,  all  that 
I  'i7i  to  get  for  the  pains  I  have  taken  in  yonr  educa- 
tion? I  that  have  rocked  you  in  your  cradle,  and  fed 
that  pretty  mouth  with  a  spoon!  Did  not  I  work  that 
waistcoat  to  make  you  genteel?  Did  not  I  prescribe 
for  you  every  day,  and  weep  while  the  receipt  was 
operating? 

Tony.  Ecod !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you  have 
been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  have  gone 
through  every  receipt  in  the  Complete  Huswife  '  ten 
times  over ;  and  you  hnve  thoughts  of  coursing  me 
through  Quincy  ^  next  spring.  But,  Ecod !  I  tell  you, 
I  '11  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mi's.  Hardcastle.  Was  n't  it  all  for  your  good, 
viper?  Was  n't  it  all  for  your  good? 

Tony.  I  wish  you  'd  let  me  and  my  good  alone, 
then.  Snubbing  this  way  when  I  'm  in  spirits !  If  I  'ra 
to  have  any  good,  let  it  come  of  itself ;  not  to  keep 
dino'in";  it,  din"ini>'  it  into  one  so. 

3Irs.  Hardcastle.  That 's  false ;  1  never  see  you 
when  you  're  iu  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to  the 
alehouse  or  kennel.  I  'm  never  to  be  delighted  with 
your  agreeable  wild  notes,  unfeeling  monster ! 

Tony.  Ecod  !  mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the  wild- 
est of  the  two. 

J//-S.  Hardcastle.  Was  ever  the  like?  But  I  see  he 
wants  to  break  my  heart ;  I  see  he  does. 

1  the  Complete  Huswife:  The  Compleat  Housewife:  or 
Accomplished  Geiitlejroma7i's  Companion  ;  first  issued  1729. 

2  Quincy:  Jolin  Qiiiiicy  was  aiitlior  of  The  Dispensatory  of 
ihfi  Rnual  Colleae  of  Phusiciaiis,  first  edition  1721. 


48  SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER       [Act  II 

Hastings.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture  the 
young  gentleman  a  little.  I  'm  certain  I  can  persuade 
him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  must  retire.  Come,  Con- 
stance, my  love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the  wretchecf 
ness  of  my  situation.  Was  ever  poor  woman  so  plagued 
with  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty,  provoking,  undutiful  boy  ? 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Miss  Neville, 

Tony.  (^Singiiig.^  There  was  a  young  man  riding 
hy,  and  fain  would  have  his  will.  Jiang  do  didlo 
dee.  —  Don't  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It 's  the  com- 
fort of  her  heart.  I  have  seen  her  and  sister  cry 
over  a  book  for  an  hour  together;  and  they  said 
they  liked  the  book  the  better  the  more  it  made  them 
cry.  » 

Hastings.  Then  you  're  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I 
find,  my  pretty  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  That 's  as  I  find  'um. 

Hastings.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  choosing,  I 
iare  answer?  And  she  appears  to  me  a  prett}^,  well- 
empered  girl. 

Tony.  That 's  because  you  don't  know  her  as  well 
as  I.  Ecod !  I  know  every  inch  about  her  ;  and  there  's 
not  a  more  bitter,  cantanckerous  toad  in  all  Christen- 
dom. 

Hastings.  (^Aside.')  Pretty  encouragement,  this, 
for  a  lover. 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that. 
She  has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a  colt 
the  first  day's  breaking. 

'  the  more  it  made  them  cry  :  Compare  Act  I,  Sc.  1,  "  has 
the  last  novel  been  too  moving  ?  "  and  see  note  ou  p.  99. 


Act  II]        SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  49 

Hastings.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent. 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she  's  with 
her  playmates,  she 's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a  gate. 

Hastings.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her 
that  charms  me. 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she  kicks 
up,  and  you  're  flung  in  a  ditch. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little 
beauty.  —  Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox  !  She  's  all  a  made-up  thing,  mun. 
Ah  !  could  you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of  these  parts,  you 
might  thon  talk  of  beauty.  Ecod !  she  has  two  eyes  as 
black  as  sloes,  and  cheeks  as  broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit 
cushion.  She  'd  make  two  of  she. 

Hastings.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that  would 
take  this  bitter  bargain  off  your  hands  ? 

Tony.  Anan ! 

Hastings.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would  take 
Miss  Neville,  and  leave  you  to  happiness  and  your 
dear  Betsy? 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend,  for 
who  would  take  her  ? 

Hastings.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I  '11  en- 
gage to  whip  her  off  to  France,  and  you  shall  never 
hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you  !  Ecod  I  will,  to  the  last  drop  of 
my  blood.  I  '11  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  your  chaise 
that  shall  trundle  you  off  in  a  twinkling,  and  maybe 
get  you  a  part  of  her  fortin  besides,  in  jewels,  that 
you  little  dream  of. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad  oi 
spirit. 


50  SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER      [Act  Til 

Tony.  Come  along  then,  and  you  shall  see  more  of 

my  spirit  before  you  have  done  with  me.   (^Singing.') 

We  are  the  hoys 

That  fears  no  noise 

Where  the  thundei'ing  cannons  roar. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   THE   THIRD 

Scene,  The  house. 
Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles 
mean  by  recommending  his  son  as  the  modestest  young 
man  in  town  ?  To  me  he  appears  the  most  impudent 
piece  of  brass  that  ever  spoke  with  a  tongue.  He  has 
taken  possession  of  the  easy  chair  by  the  fire-side  al- 
ready. He  took  off  his  boots  in  the  parlor,  and  desired 
me  to  see  them  taken  care  of.  I  'm  desirous  to  know 
how  his  impudence  affects  my  daughter.  She  will  cer- 
tainly be  shocked  at  it. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  plainly  dressed. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have  changed 
your  dress,  as  I  bid  you ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  there  was 
no  great  occasion. 

3Ilss  Hardcastle.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in 
obeying  your  commands,  that  I  take  care  to  observe 
them  without  ever  debating  their  propriety. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you 
some  cause,  particularly  when  I  recommended  my 
modest  gentleman  to  you  as  a  lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  taught  me  to  expect  some- 


Act  111]      SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  61 

thing  extraordinary,  and  I  find  the  original  exceeds 
the  description. 

Hardcastle.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  I 
He  has  quite  confounded  all  my  faculties. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it ;  and 
a  man  of  the  world,  too  ! 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad ;  what  a 
fool  was  I,  to  think  a  young  man  could  learn  modesty 
by  travelling.  He  might  as  soon  learn  wit  at  a  mas' 
querade. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hardcastle.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company 
And  a  French  dancing-master. 

3Hss  Hardcastle.  Sure,  you  mistake,  papa.  A 
French  dancing-master  could  never  have  taught  him 
that  timid  look  —  that  awkward  address  —  that  bash' 
ful  manner. 

Hardcastle.  Whose  look,  whose  manner,  child? 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow's :  his  maiivaise 
hoiite,^  his  timidity,  struck  me  at  the  first  sight. 

Hardcastle.  Tlien  your  first  sight  deceived  you  ;  for 
I  think  him  one  of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that 
ever  astonished  my  senses. 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally  I  I  never  saw 
any  one  so  modest. 

Hardcastle.  And  can  you  be  serious !  I  never  saw 
such  a  bouncing,  swaggering  puppy  since  I  was  born. 
Btdly  Dawson^  was  but  a  fool  to  him. 

'  mauvaise  honte  :  baahfnlness. 

2  Bully  Dawson  :  A  Wliitefriars  swashbuckler  of  the  seven- 
teenth century;  appears  often  in  literature,  in  the  essays  of  Addi- 
son and  Steele,  as  the  original  of  Captain  Hackum  in  Shadwell's 
Squire  of  Alsatia,  and  in  Tom  Brown's  Letters  from  the  Dead  to 
the  Living. 


52  SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER      [Act  111 

Hiss  Hardcastle.  Surprising !  He  met  me  with  a 
respectful  bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a  look  fixed 
on  the  ground. 

Hardcastle.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a  lordl^l 
air,  and  a  familiarity  that  made  my  blood  freeze  again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence 
and  respect ;  censured  the  manners  of  the  age ;  ad- 
mired the  prudence  of  girls  that  never  lauglied ;  tired 
me  with  apologies  for  being  tiresome;  then  left  the 
room  with  a  bow,  and  "  Madam,  I  would  not  for  iche 
world  detain  you." 

Hardcastle.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all  his 
life  before;  asked  twenty  questions,  and  never  waited 
for  an  answer ;  interrupted  my  best  remarks  with  some 
silly  pun  ;  and  when  I  was  in  my  best  story  of  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  he  asked  if  I 
had  not  a  good  hand  at  making  punch.  Yes,  Kate,  he 
asked  your  father  if  he  was  a  maker  of  punch! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be 
mistaken. 

Hardcastle.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  himself, 
I  'm  determined  he  shall  never  have  my  consent. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I 
take  him,  he  shall  never  have  mine. 

Hardcastle.  In  one  thing  then  we  are  agreed  —  to 
reject  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes  —  but  upon  conditions.  For 
if  you  should  find  him  less  impudent,  and  I  more  pre- 
suming ;  if  you  find  him  more  respectful,  and  I  more 
Importunate  —  I  don't  know  —  the  fellow  is  well 
enough  for  a  man  —  Certainly  we  don't  meet  many 
such  at  a  horse-race  in  the  country. 


ActIIIJ     she   stoops  to  conquer  53 

Hardcastle.  If  we  should  find  him  so  —  But  that's 
imj^ossible.  The  first  appearance  has  done  my  busi- 
ness.   I  'm  seldom  deceived  in  that. 

3fiss  Hardcastle.  And  yet  there  may  be  many 
good  qualities  under  that  first  appearance. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's  out- 
side to  her  taste,  she  then  sets  about  guessing  the  rest 
of  his  furniture.  With  her  a  smooth  face  stands  for 
good  sense,  and  a  genteel  figure  for  every  virtue. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  begun 
with  a  compliment  to  my  good  sense,  won't  end  with 
a  sneer  at  my  understanding ! 

Hardcastle.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr. 
Brazen  can  find  the  art  of  reconciling  contradictions, 
he  may  please  us  both,  perhaps. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mis- 
taken, what  if  we  go  to  make  farther  discoveries? 

Hardcastle.  Agreed.  But  depend  on  't,  I  'm  in  the 
right. 

3fiss  Hardcastle.  And,  depend  on  't,  I  'm  not  much 

in  the  wrong.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Tony,  running  in  with  a  casket. 

Tony.  Ecod !  I  have  got  them.  Here  they  are. 
My  cousin  Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  all.  My  mother 
shan't  cheat  the  poor  souls  out  of  their  fortin  neither. 
Oh  !  my  genus,  is  that  you  ? 

Enter  Hastings. 
Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed 
with  your  mother  ?  I  hope  you  have  amused  her  with 
pretending  love  for  your  cousin,  and  that  you  are  will- 
ing to  be  reconciled  at  last  ?  Our  horses  will  be  refreshed 
in  a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon  be  ready  to  set  off. 


54  SHE   STOOPS  TO  CONQUER     [Act  III 

Tony.  And  here  's  something  to  bear  your  charges 
by  the  way  (^g'lvmg  the  casket^  ;  —  your  sweetheart's 
jewels.  Keep  them ;  and  hang  those,  I  say,  that  would 
rob  you  of  one  of  them ! 

Hastings.  But  how  have  you  procured  them  from 
your  mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I  '11  tell  you  no 
fibs.  I  procured  them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I  had 
not  a  key  to  every  drawer  in  my  mother's  bureau, 
how  could  I  go  to  the  alehouse  so  often  as  I  do  ?  An 
honest  man  may  rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any  time. 

Hastings.  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  Miss  Neville  is  endeavoring  to  procure 
them  fi'oni  her  aunt  this  very  instant.  If  she  succeeds, 
it  will  be  the  most  delicate  way,  at  least,  of  obtaining 
them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it  will 
be.  But  I  know  how  it  will  be  well  enough ;  she  'd  as 
soon  part  with  the  only  sound  tooth  in  her  head. 

Hastings.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resent- 
ment when  she  finds  she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment;  leave  me 
to  manage  that.  I  don't  value  her  resentment  the 
bounce  of  a  cracker.    Zounds  !  here  they  are !    Mor- 

rice  !     Prance  !  [Exit  Hastings. 

Tony,  Mrs.  Hardcastle,  and  Miss  Neville. 

3Irs.  Hardcastle.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze 
me.  Such  a  girl  as  you  want  jewels?  It  wiU  be  time 
enough  for  jewels,  my  dear,  twenty  years  hence,  when 
your  beauty  begins  to  want  repairs, 

3Iiss  Neville.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at  forty, 
will  certainly  improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 


Act  III]     SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  65 

Mrs.  Hardcasth..  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of  none, 
riiat  natural  blusli  is  beyoml  a  thousand  ornaments. 
Besides,  child,  jewels  are  quite  out  at  present.  Don't 
you  see  half  the  ladies  of  our  acquaintance,  my  Lady 
Kill-day-light,  and  Mrs.  Crump,  and  the  rest  of  them, 
carry  their  jewels  to  town,  and  bring  nothing  but  pastt 
and  marcasites  ^  back  ? 

Miss  Neville.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but  some- 
body that  shall  be  nameless  woidd  like  me  best  with 
all  my  little  finery  about  me  ? 

31rs.  Hardcastlc.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and 
then  see  if,  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes,  you  want  any 
better  sparklers.  Wliat  do  you  think,  Tony,  my  dear? 
Does  your  cousin  Con  want  any  jewels,  in  your  eyes, 
to  set  off  her  beauty? 

Tony.  That 's  as  hereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how  it 
would  oblige  me. 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose  and 
table-cut  things.  They  wovdd  make  you  look  like  the 
court  of  King  Solomon  at  a  puppet-show.^  Besides, 
I  believe  I  can't  readily  come  at  them.  They  may  be 
missing,  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary. 

Tony.  (^Apart  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle.^  Then  why 
don't  you  tell  her  so  at  once,  as  she  's  so  longing  for 
them  ?  Tell  her  they  're  lost.  It 's  the  only  way  to 
quiet  her.  Say  they  're  lost,  and  call  me  to  bear  wit- 
ness. 

'  marcasites:  A  base  nietfil  used  for  cheap  jewelry. 

'  King  Solomon  at  a  puppet-shovr:  "Tims  the  whole 
employment  of  my  younger  years  was  that  of  interpreter  to 
Punch  and  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory."  Goldsmith's  Adven^ 
iures  of  a  Strolling  Player. 


56  SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER      [Act  III 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  QAjoart  to  Tony.')  You  know,  my 
dear,  I  'm  only  keeping-  them  for  you.  So  if  I  say 
they're  gone,  you'll  bear  me  witness,  will  you?  He! 
he!  he! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Eco J  .'  I  '11  say  I  saw  them 
taken  out  with  my  own  eyes. 

3Iiss  JSfeville.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day,  madam  , 
just  to  be  permitted  to  show  them  as  relics,  and  then 
they  may  be  locked  up  again. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear 
Constance,  if  I  could  find  them  you  should  have  them. 
They  're  missing,  I  assure  you.  Lost,  for  aught  I 
know ;  but  we  must  have  patience,  wherever  they  are. 

3fiss  Neville.  I  '11  not  believe  it ;  this  is  but  a  shal- 
low pretence  to  deny  me.  I  know  they  are  too  valuable 
to  be  so  slightly  kept,  and  as  you  are  to  answer  for  the 
loss 

3Irs.  Hardcastle.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Constance.  If 
they  be  lost,  I  must  restore  an  equivalent.  But  my 
son  knows  they  are  missing,  and  not  to  be  found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are  miss- 
ing, and  not  to  be  found  ;  I  '11  take  my  oath  on  't. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my 
dear ;  for  though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet  we  should 
not  lose  our  patience.   See  me,  how  calm  I  am. 

3fiss  Neville.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at  the 
misfortunes  of  others. 

3Irs.  Hardcastle.  Now,  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your  good 
sense  should  waste  a  thought  upon  such  trumpery.  We 
shall  soon  find  them  ;  and  in  the  mean  time  you  shall 
make  use  of  my  garnets  till  j^our  jewels  be  found. 

3Iiss  Neville.  I  detest  garnets ! 


Act  III]     SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  57 

3/rs.  Ilardcastle.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the 
world  to  set  off  a  clear  complexion.  You  have  often 
seen  how  well  they  look  upon  me.  You  shall  have 
them.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  —  You 
shan't  stir.  Was  ever  anything  so  provoking,  —  to 
mislay  my  own  jewels,  and  force  me  to  wear  her 
trumpery  ? 

Tony.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the  gar- 
nets take  what  you  can  get.  The  jewels  are  your  own 
already.  I  have  stolen  them  out  of  her  bureau,  and 
she  does  not  know  it.  Fly  to  your  spark ;  he  '11  tell 
you  more  of  the  matter.  Leave  me  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  cousin  ! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She's  here,  and  has  missed  them 
already.  (^Exit  Miss  Neville.')  Zounds  !  how  she  fidg- 
ets and  spits  about  like  a  Catherine  wheel.  ^ 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Confusion  !  thieves  !  robbers  !  we 
are  cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  undone ! 

Tony.  What 's  the  matter,  what 's  the  matter, 
mamma  ?  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  any  of  the 
good  family? 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau  has 
been  broke  open,  the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I  'm  undone  ! 

Tony.  Oh  !  is  that  all !  Ha !  ha !  ha !  By  the  laws, 
I  never  saw  it  better  acted  in  my  life-  Ecod,  I  thought 
you  was  ruined  in  earnest,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in  ear^ 
nest.  My  bureau  has  been  broke  open,  and  all  taken 
away. 

'  Catherine  wheel:  A  pin  wheel  in  fireworks. 


58  SHE   STOOPS   TO  CONQUER      [Act  III 

Tony.  Stick  to  that ;  ha,  ha,  ha !  stick  to  that.  I  '11 
bear  witness,  you  know !  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that 's 
precious,  the  jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined 
forever. 

Tony.  Sure  I  know  they  are  gone,  and  I  am  to  say  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me. 
They  're  gone,  I  say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for  to 
laugh,  ha !  ha  !  I  know  who  took  them  well  enough, 
ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  "Was  there  ever  such  a  blockhead, 
that  can't  tell  the  difference  between  jest  and  earnest? 
1  can  tell  you  1  'm  not  in  jest,  booby. 

Tony.  That 's  right,  that 's  right !  You  must  be  in 
a  bitter  passion,  and  then  nobody  will  suspect  either 
of  us.  I  '11  bear  witness  that  they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross- 
grained  brute,  that  won't  hear  me  ?  Can  you  bear  wit- 
ness that  you  're  no  better  than  a  fool  ?  Was  ever  poor 
woman  so  beset  with  fools  on  one  hand,  and  thieves 
on  the  other? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witriess  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Bear  witness  again,  you  block- 
head, you,  and  I  '11  turn  you  out  of  the  room  directly. 
My  poor  niece,  what  will  become  of  her?  Do  you  laugh, 
you  unfeeling  brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed  my  distress  ? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster,  I  '11 
teach  you  to  vex  your  mother,  I  will ! 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that.  (ZTe  ru7is  off ;  she 
follows  him.^ 


Act  III]      SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  59 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle  and  Maid. 

3flss  Hardcastle.  What  an  unaccountable  creature 
is  that  brother  of  mine,  to  send  them  to  the  house  as 
an  inn  ;  ha  I  ha  !   I  don't  wonder  at  his  impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young  gen- 
tleman, as  you  passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  asked 
me  if  you  were  the  bar-maid.  He  mistook  you  for  the 
bar-maid,  madam  ! 

3flss  Hardcastle.  Did  he  ?  Then,  as  I  live,  I  'm 
resolved  to  keep  up  the  delusion.  Tell  me.  Pimple, 
how  do  you  like  my  present  dress  ?  Don't  you  think  I 
look  something  like  Cherry  in  the  Beaux^  Stratagem? 

Maid.  It 's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady  wears 
in  the  country,  but  when  she  visits  or  receives  company. 

3flss  Hardcastle.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  not 
remember  my  face  or  person  ? 

3fald.  Certain  of  it. 

3Hss  Hardcastle.  I  vow  I  thought  so  ;  for  though 
we  spoke  for  some  time  together,  yet  his  fears  were 
such  that  he  never  once  looked  up  during  the  inter- 
view. Indeed,  if  he  had,  my  bonnet  would  have  kept 
him  from  seeing  me.^ 

*  Cherry  in  the  Beaux'  Stratagem."  Cherry  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  tavern  keeper  in  Farqii liar's  play.  Some  marks  of 
this  play's  influence  are  seen  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 

^  my  bonnet  \Arould  have  kept  him  from  seeing  me:  In 
a  skit  of  August,  177G,  quoted  in  Alexanna  Speight's  The  Lock 
of  Hair  (1872),  are  the  following  lines:  — 

Sing  lier  daubed  with  white  and  red, 
Sing  lier  large  terrific  head  ; 

Hats  that  only  show  the  chin, 
And  the  mouth's  bewitching  grin. 
As  intended  for  a  sliield 
To  the  caput  thus  concealed. 


60  SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER      [Act  III 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him  in 
his  mistake? 

Miss  llardcastle.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be 
see;?.,  and  that  is  no  small  advantage  to  a  girl  who 
brings  her  face  to  market.  Then  I  shall  perhaps  make 
an  acquaintance,  and  that 's  no  small  victory  gained 
over  one  who  never  addresses  any  but  the  wildest  of 
her  sex.  But  my  chief  aim  is  to  take  my  gentleman 
off  his  guard,  and,  like  an  invisible  champion  of  ro- 
mance, examine  the  giant's  force  before  I  offer  to 
combat. 

Maid.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  act  your  part,  and 
disguise  your  voice  so  that  he  may  mistake  that,  as  he 
has  alread}'  mistaken  your  person? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I  have 
got  the  true  bar  cant  —  Did  your  honor  call  ?  —  Attend 
the  Lion  there.  —  Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Angel.  — 
The  Lamb  has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour  ! 

Maid.  It  will  do,  madam.  But  he  's  here. 

{Exit  Maid. 
Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the 
house ;  I  have  scarce  a  moment's  repose.  If  I  go  to 
the  best  room,  there  I  find  my  host  and  his  story  ;  if 
I  fly  to  the  gallery,  there  we  have  my  hostess  with 
her  curtsey  down  to  the  ground.  I  have  at  last  got  a 
moment  to  myself,  and  now  for  recollection.  QValks 
and  muses.^ 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  you  call  sir?  Did  your 
honor  call  ? 

3Iarlorv.  (^Musing.}  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she  's 
too  grave  and  sentimental  for  me. 


Act  III]      SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  61 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  your  honor  call  ?  (^She  still 
places  herself  before  hi?)!,  he  tin^ninrj  away.') 

Marloio.  No,  child.  (^Musing.')  Besides,  from  the 
glimpse  I  had  of  her,  I  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  'm  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell 
ring. 

Marlow.  No,  no.  (^Musing.)  I  have  pleased  my 
father,  however,  by  coining  down,  and  I  '11  to-morrow 
please  myself  by  returning.  (^Taking  out  his  tablets 
and  perusing.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Perliaps  the  other  gentleman 
called,  sir? 

Marlow.  I  tell  you  no. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir. 
We  have  such  a  parcel  of  servants. 

Marlow.  No,  no,  I  tell  you.  {Loolcs  full  in  her 
face.)  Yes,  child,  I  think  I  did  call.  I  wanted  —  I 
wanted  —  I  vow,  child,  you  are  vastly  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Oh,  la,  sir,  you  '11  make  one 
ashamed. 

Marlow.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly,  malicious 
eye.  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you  got  any 
of  your  —  a  —  what  d'  ye  call  it,  in  the  house  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  of  that 
these  ten  days. 

Marlow.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find,  to  very 
little  purpose.  Suppose  I  should  call  for  a  taste,  just 
by  way  of  trial,  of  the  nectar  of  your  lips ;  perhaps  I 
might  be  disappointed  in  that  too. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Nectar  ?  nectar  ?  That 's  a  liquor 
there  's  no  call  for  in  these  parts.  French,  I  suppose. 
We  keep  no  French  wines  here,  sir. 


62  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER     [Act  III 

Marlow.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  ITardcastle.  Then  it 's  odd  I  should  not  know 
it.  We  brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I 
have  lived  here  these  eighteen  years. 

Jfarloio.  Eighteen  years!  Why,  one  would  think, 
child,  you  kept  the  bar  before  you  were  born.  How 
old  are  you? 

Miss  Ilardcasfle.  Oh,  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age. 
They  say  women  and  music  should  never  be  dated. 

Marlow.  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you  can't  be 
much  above  forty.  (^Apj)roacJiing .'y  Yet  nearer,  I  don't 
think  so  much.  (^Ajjproacking .^  By  coming  close  to 
some  women,  they  look  younger  still ;  but  when  we 
come  very  close  indeed —   (^Attempting  to  kiss  her.^ 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance. 
One  would  think  you  wanted  to  know  one's  age  as  they 
do  horses,  by  mark  of  mouth. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely  ill. 
If  you  keep  me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it  possible 
you  and  I  can  be  ever  acquainted? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted 
with  you?  I  want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I.  I  'm 
sure  you  did  not  treat  Miss  Hardcastle,  that  was  here 
a  while  ago,  in  this  obstropalous  *  manner.  I  '11  war- 
rant me,  before  her  you  looked  dashed,  and  kept  bow- 
ing to  the  ground,  and  talked,  for  all  the  world,  as  if 
you  was  before  a  justice  of  peace. 

Marlo^v.  {Aside.)  Egad,  she  has  hit  it,  sure 
enough!  {To  her. ^  In  awe  of  lier,  child  ?  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
A  mere  awkward,  squinting  thing !  No,  no.  I  find  you 

'  obstropalous :  Obstreperous.  By  Halliwell  held  to  be  genu- 
ine London  dialect. 


Act  HI]     SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  63 

don't  know  me.  I  lauf^hed  and  rallied  her  a  little  ;  but 
I  was  unwilling  to  be  too  severe.  No,  1  could  not  be 
too  severe,  curse  me ! 

Miss  Ilardcastle.  Oh,  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favorite, 
I  find,  among  the  ladies  ! 

Marlov;.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favorite.  And  yet, 
iiang  me,  I  don't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to  follow. 
At  the  Ladies'  Club  in  town  I  'm  called  their  agreeable 
Rattle.  Rattle,  child,  is  not  my  real  name,  but  one  1  'm 
known  by.  My  name  is  Solomons ;  Mr.  Solomons,  my 
dear,  at  your  service.   (^Offcr'inrj  to  salute  her.') 

3Iiss  Ilardcastle.  Hold,  sir,  you  are  introducing  me 
to  your  club,  not  to  yourself.  And.  you  're  so  great  a 
favorite  there,  you  say? 

JIarloiv.  Yes,  my  dear.  There 's  Mrs.  Mantrap, 
Lady  Betty  Blackleg,  the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs. 
Langhorns,  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,'  and  your  hum- 
ble servant,  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Miss  Ilardcastle.  Then  it 's  a  very  merry  place,  I 
suppose  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  suppers,  wine,  and 
old  women  can  make  us. 

Miss  Ilardcastle.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle,  ha ! 
ha!  ha! 

Marlow.  (^Aside.')  Egad!  I  don't  quite  like  this 
chit.  She  looks  knowing,  methinks.  You  laugh,  child  ? 

3Iiss  Ilardcastle.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what 

'  Biddy  Buckskin:  It  would  appear  through  a  letter  by 
Horace  Walpole,  March  27,  1773,  that  at  the  first  performance 
this  name  was  Rachel  Buckskin.  Walpole  says  that  the  allusion 
is  to  Miss  Rachel  Lloyd,  the  housekeeper  at  Kensin<Tton  Palace, 
and  founder  of  the  "  Albemarle  Street,"  mentioned  a  few  lines 
above  as  the  "  Ladies'  Club." 


64  SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER      [Act  III 

time  they  all  have  for  minding  their  work,  or  their 
family. 

Marlow.  (^Aside.')  All 's  well ;  she  don't  laugh  at 
jae.   (^To  her.')  Do  2/ow  ever  work,  child? 

Miss  Hard  castle.  Ay,  sure.  There  's  not  a  screen 
or  a  quilt  in  the  whole  house  but  what  can  bear  witness 
to  that. 

Marlow.  Odso  I  then  you  must  show  me  your  em- 
broidery. I  embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a 
little.  If  you  want  a  judge  of  your  work,  you  must 
apply  to  me.   (^Seizing  her  hand.') 

Enter  Hardcastle,  who  stands  in  surprise. 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  the  colors  don't  look 
well  by  candle-light.  You  shall  see  it  aU  in  the  morn- 
ing.  (  Struggling.) 

3Iarloio.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel?  Such  beauty 
fires  beyond  the  power  of  resistance.  Pshaw!  the 
father  here  !  My  old  luck  ;  I  never  nicked  seven  *  that 
I  did  not  throw  ames  ace  ^  three  times  following. 

[Exit  Marlow. 

Hardcastle.  So,  madam !  So  I  find  this  is  your 
modest  lover.  This  is  your  humble  admirer,  that  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  only  adored  at  hum- 
ble distance.  Kate,  Kate,  art  thou  not  ashamed  to 
deceive  your  father  so  ? 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but 
he  's  still  the  modest  man  I  first  took  him  for ;  you  'II 
be  convinced  of  it  as  well  as  I. 

*  nicked  seven  :  To  throw  seven  with  the  dice  was  a  very 
lucky  throw. 

^  ames  ace  :  Sometimes  written  ambs-ace  ;  double  ace,  the 
lowest  throw  at  dice.  Used  as  a  figure  for  bad  luck. 


Act  III]      SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  65 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe  his 
impudeuce  is  infectious  !  Did  n't  I  see  him  seize  your 
hand  ?  Did  n't  I  see  him  haul  you  about  like  a  milk- 
maid ?  And  now  you  talk  of  his  respect  and  his  mod- 
esty, forsooth ! 

3Ils.s  irardcasile.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  ol 
his  modesty,  that  he  has  only  the  faults  that  will  pass 
off  with  time,  and  the  virtues  that  will  improve  with 
age,  I  hope  you  '11  forgive  him. 

Hardcastle.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one  run 
mad  !  I  tell  you  I  '11  not  be  convinced.  I  am  convinced. 
He  has  scarcely  been  three  hours  in  the  house,  and  he 
has  already  encroached  on  all  my  prerogatives.  You 
may  like  his  impudence,  and  call  it  modesty ;  but  my 
son-in-law,  madam,  must  have  very  different  qualifica- 
tions. 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  con- 
vince you. 

Hardcastle.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for 
I  have  thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Give  me  that  hour,  then,  and  I 
hope  to  satisfy  you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But  I  'U 
have  no  trifling  with  your  father.  AU  fair  and  open  ; 
do  you  mind  me  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever  found 
that  I  considered  your  commands  as  my  pride ;  for 
j^our  kindness  is  such  that  my  duty  as  yet  has  been 
inclination.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   THE   FOURTH 

Scene,  The  house. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  You  surprise  me  !  Sir  Charles  Marlow 
expected  here  this  night  ?  Where  have  you  had  your 
information  ? 

Miss  Neville.  You  may  depend  upon  it.  I  just  saw 
his  letter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells  him  he 
intends  setting  out  a  few  hours  after  his  son. 

Hastings.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be  com- 
pleted before  he  arrives.  He  knows  me  ;  and  should 
he  find  me  here,  would  discover  my  name,  and  perhaps 
my  designs,  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe  ? 

Hastings.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to  Marlow, 
who  keeps  the  keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the  mean  time, 
I  '11  go  to  prepare  matters  for  our  elopement.  I  have 
had  the  Squire's  promise  of  a  fresh  pair  of  horses  ;  and, 
if  I  should  not  see  him  again,  will  write  him  further 
directions.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  success  attend  you !  In  the 
mean  time,  I  '11  go  amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old  pre- 
tence of  a  violent  passion  for  my  cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  Marlow,  followed  by  a  Servant. 

Marlow.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean  by 
sending  me  so  valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to  keep  for 
him,  when  he  knows  the  only  place  I  have  is  the  seat 
of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door.  Have  you  deposited  the 
casket  with  the  landlady,  as  I  ordered  you  ?  Have  you 
put  it  into  her  own  hands? 


Act  IV]      SHE   STOOPS   TO  CONQUER  67 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honor. 

Marlon^.  She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she? 

Servant.  Yes ;  she  said  she  'd  keep  it  safe  enough. 
She  asked  me  how  I  came  by  it ;  and  she  said  she  had 
a  great  mind  to  make  me  give  an  account  of  myself. 

l^Exit  Servant. 

Marlo'W.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  They  're  safe,  however. 
What  an  unaccountable  set  of  beings  have  we  got 
amongst !  This  little  bar-maid,  though,  runs  in  my  head 
most  strangely,  and  drives  out  the  absurdities  of  all 
the  rest  of  the  family.  She  's  mine,  she  must  be  mine, 
or  I  'm  greatly  mistaken  ! 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastiyigs.  Bless  me  !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her  that 
I  intended  to  prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
Marlow  here,  and  in  spirits  too ! 

Marlow.  Give  me  joy,  George  !  Crown  me,  shadow 
me  with  laurels !  Well,  George,  after  all,  we  modest 
fellows  don't  want  for  success  among  the  women. 

Hastings.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But  what  suc- 
cess has  your  honor's  modesty  been  crowned  with  now, 
that  it  grows  so  insolent  upon  us  ? 

Marloiv.  Did  n't  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk,  lovely 
little  thing,  that  runs  about  the  house  with  a  buucb 
of  keys  to  its  girdle  ? 

Hastings.    Well,  and  what  then? 

Marloio.  She  's  mine,  you  rogue,  you.  Such  fire, 
such  motion,  such  eyes,  such  lips  —  but,  egad !  she 
would  not  let  me  kiss  them  thouoh. 

Hastings.    But  are  you  sure,  so  very  sure  of  her  ? 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing  me  her 
work  above  stairs,  and  I  am  to  improve  the  pattern. 


68  SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER      [Act  IV 

Hastings.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about  to 
roh  a  woman  of  her  honor  ? 

Marl 010.  Pshaw  !  pshaw !  We  all  know  the  honor 
of  the  bar-maid  of  an  inn.  I  don't  intend  to  roh  her, 
take  my  word  for  it ;  there  's  nothing  in  this  house  I 
shan't  honestly  pay  for. 

Hastings.    I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Marlow.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last  man 
in  the  world  that  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it. 

Hastings.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the 
casket  I  sent  you  to  lock  up  ?    It 's  in  safety  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  yes  ;  it 's  safe  enough.  I  have  taken 
care  of  it.  But  how  could  you  think  the  seat  of  a 
post-coach  at  an  inn-door  a  place  of  safety  ?  Ah ! 
numscull !  I  have  taken  better  precautions  for  you 
than  you  did  for  yourself  —  I  have  — 

Hastings.  What? 

Marlow.  1  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keejD  for 
you. 

Hastings.    To  the  landlady  ! 

Marlow.    The  landlady. 

Hastings.    You  did? 

Marlow.  I  did.  She 's  to  be  answerable  for  its 
forthcoming,  you  know. 

Hastings.  Yes,  she  '11  bring  it  forth  with  a  witness. 

Marlow.  Was  n't  I  right  ?  I  believe  j'ou  '11  allow 
that  I  acted  prudently  upon  this  occasion. 

Hastings.  (^Aside.^  He  must  not  see  my  uneasi- 
ness. 

Marlow.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted,  thougli, 
methinks.    Sure  nothing  has  happened? 

Hastings.  No,  nothing.   Never  was  in  better  spirits 


Act  IV]      SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  69 

in  all  my  life.  And  so  you  left  it  with  the  landlady, 
who,  no  doubt,  very  readily  undertook  the  charge. 

Marlow.  Rather  too  readily  ;  for  she  not  only  kept 
the  casket,  but,  through  her  great  precaution,  was  go- 
ing to  keep  the  messenger  too.    Ha !  ha !  ha  ! 

Hastings.    He  !  he  !  he  !    They  're  safe,  however. 

Marlow.    As  a  guinea  in  a  miser's  purse. 

Hastings.  (^Asidc.^  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune 
are  at  an  end,  and  we  must  set  off  without  it.  (To 
him.^  Well,  Charles,  I  '11  leave  you  to  3^our  medita- 
tions on  the  pretty  bar-maid,  and  he!  he!  he!  may  you 
be  as  successful  for  yourself  as  you  have  been  for  me! 

[Exit. 

Marlov).  Thank  ye,  George ;  I  ask  no  more.  — 
Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.  It 's 
turned  all  topsy-turvy.  His  servants  have  got  drunk 
already.  I  '11  bear  it  no  longer  ;  and  yet,  from  my 
respect  for  his  father,  I  '11  be  calm.  (2b  him.')  Mr. 
Marlow,  your  servant.  I  'm  your  very  humble  servant. 
(JBoimng  low.) 

Marlow.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  (^siJe.)  What's 
to  be  the  wonder  now  ? 

Hardcastle.  1  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible, 
sir,  that  no  man  alive  ought  to  be  more  welcome  than 
your  father's  son,  sir.    I  hope  you  think  so? 

Marlov).  I  do  from  my  soul,  sir.  1  don't  want 
much  entreaty.  I  generally  make  my  father's  son 
welcome  wherever  he  goes. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir. 
But  though  I  say  nothing  to  your  own  conduct,  that 


70  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER      [Act  IV 

of  your  servants  is  insufferable.  Their  manner  of 
drinking  is  setting  a  very  bad  example  in  this  house, 
1  assure  you. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that  is  no  fault 
of  mine.  If  they  don't  drink  as  they  ought,  they  are 
to  blame.  I  ordered  them  not  to  spare  the  cellar;  I 
did,  1  assure  you.  (2b  the  side-scene.^  Here,  let  one 
of  my  servants  come  up.  ( To  him.^  My  positive 
directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not  drink  myself,  they 
should  make  up  for  my  deficiencies  below. 

Hardcastle.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what 
they  do  ?  I  'm  satisfied  I 

Marlow.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall  hear 
from  one  of  themselves. 

Enter  Servant,  drunk. 

Marloio.  You,  Jeremy !  Come  forward,  sirrah ! 
What  were  my  orders  ?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink 
freely,  and  call  for  what  you  thought  fit,  for  the  good 
of  the  house  ? 

Hardcastle.   (^Aside.^   I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

t/eremy.  Please  your  honor,  liberty  and  Fleet-street 
forever  I  Though  I  'm  but  a  servant,  I  'm  as  good  as 
another  man.  I  '11  drink  for  no  man  before  supper, 
sir,  damme !  Good  liquor  will  sit  upon  a  good  supper, 
but  a  good  supper  will  not  sit  upon  —  hiccup  —  upon 
my  conscience,  sir.  [Exit. 

Marlow.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is  as 
drunk  as  he  can  possibly  be.  I  don't  know  what  you'd 
}iave  more,  unless  you'd  have  the  poor  devil  soused  in 
a  beer  barrel. 

Hardcastle.  Zounds  !  he  '11  drive  me  distracted,  if 
I  Contain  myself  any  longer.    Mr.  Marlow,  sir !  I  have 


Act  IV]      SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  71 

submitted  to  your  insolence  for  more  than  four  hours, 
and  I  see  no  likelihood  of  its  coming  to  an  end.  I  'm 
now  resolved  to  be  master  here,  sir,  and  I  desire  that 
you  and  your  drunken  pack  may  leave  my  house 
dii-ectly. 

Marloio.  Leave  your  house  !  —  Sure,  you  jest,  my 
good  friend  ?  What  ?  when  I  am  doing  what  I  can  to 
please  you  ! 

Ilardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  don't  please  me  ;  so 
I  desire  you  '11  leave  my  house. 

Marloio.  Sure  you  cannot  be  serious  ?  at  this  time  of 
night,  and  such  a  night  ?  You  only  mean  to  banter  me. 

Ilardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I  'm  serious  I  and  now 
that  my  passions  are  roused,  I  say  this  house  is  mine, 
sir  ;  this  house  is  mine,  and  I  command  you  to  leave  it 
directly. 

Marlow.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I 
shan't  stir  a  step,  I  assure  you.  (/?i  a  serious  tone.^ 
This  your  house,  fellow !  It 's  my  house.  This  is  my 
house.  Mine,  while  I  choose  to  stay.  What  right  have 
you  to  bid  me  leave  this  house,  sir?  I  never  met  with 
such  impudence,  curse  me  ;  never  in  my  whole  life 
before. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did  !  To 
come  to  my  house,  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to  turn 
me  out  of  my  own  chair,  to  insult  the  family,  to  order 
his  servants  to  get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me,  "  This 
house  is  mine,  sir  !  "  By  all  that 's  impudent,  it  makes 
me  laugh.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Pray,  sir,  (bantering^  as 
you  take  the  house,  what  think  you  of  taking  the  rest 
of  the  furniture?  There's  a  pair  of  silver  candle- 
sticks, and  there  's  a  fire-screen,  and  here  's  a  pair  of 


72  SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER      [Act  IV 

brazen-nosed  bellows  ;  perhaps  you  may  take  a  fancy 
to  them  ? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir  ;  bring  me  your 
bill,   and  let 's  make  no  more  words  about  it. 

Hardcastle.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What 
think  you  of  the  Hakes  Progress  ^  for  your  own 
apartment  ? 

Marlovo.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say,  and  I  '11  leave 
you  and  your  infernal  house  directly. 

Hardcastle.  Then  there 's  a  mahogany  table  that 
you  may  see  your  face  in. 

Marlow.  My  bill,  I  say. 

Hardcastle.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair  for  your 
own  particular  slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Marlow.  Zounds !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and 
let 's  hear  no  more  on  't. 

Hardcastle.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your 
father's  letter  to  me,  I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well- 
bred,  modest  man  as  a  visitor  here,  but  now  I  find 
him  no  better  than  a  coxcomb  and  a  bully ;  but  he 
will  be  down  here  presently,  and  shall  hear  more  of  it. 

[Exit. 

Marlow.  How 's  this  !  Sure  I  have  not  mistaken 
the  house  ?  Everything  looks  like  an  inn  ;  the  servants 
cry  "  coming  "  ;  the  attendance  is  awkward ;  the  bar- 
maid, too,  to  attend  us.  But  she  's  here,  and  will  further 
inform  me.  Whither  so  fast,  child  ?  A  word  with  you. 
Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 
Miss  Hardcastle.  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I  'm  in 
a  hurry.    (^Aslde.^    I  believe  he  begins  to  find  out 

'  the  Rake's  Progress:  A  famous  series  of  paintings  by 
Goldsmith's  old  friend  Hogarth. 


Act  IV]      SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  73 

his  mistake,  But  it  's  too  soon  quite  to  undeceive 
liim. 

Marloio.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question. 
What  are  you,  and  what  may  your  business  in  this 
house  be  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Marloio.  What !  a  poor  relation  ? 

3Uss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  a  poor  relation,  appointed 
to  keep  the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests  want 
nothing  in  my  power  to  give  them. 

Marloiv.  That  is,  you  act  as  the  bar-maid  of  this  Inn. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Inn  !  O  law — what  brought  that 
into  your  head  ?  One  of  the  best  families  in  the  county 
keep  an  inn  !  —  Pla  !  ha !  ha !  old  Mr.  Hardcastle's 
house  an  inn ! 

Marlovj.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  !  Is  this  house 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  house,  child? 

3Hss  Hardcastle,  Ay,  sure.  Whose  else  should  it 
be? 

Marloiv).  So,  then,  all 's  out,  and  I  have  been  dam- 
nably imposed  on.  Oh,  confound  my  stupid  head,  I 
shall  be  laughed  at  over  the  whole  town  !  I  shall  be 
stuck  up  in  caricatura'  in  all  the  i)rint-shops.  The 
Dullissimo-Macaroni.-  To  mistake  this  house  of  all 

'  caricatura  :  Satirical  prints  were  even  then  appearing  in  the 
iShop  windows  in  the  Strand  ridicnling  the  dandies  of  the  time. 
Compare  Lofty  in  The  Good-Natured  Man,  Act  V,  "  have  I  had 
my  liand  to  achlresses,  and  my  head  in  the  print-shops?" 

2  Macaroni:  This  term  was  applied  to  the  fops  and  dandies 
of  tlie  end  of  tlie  eifjliteentli  century.  The  Neiv  English  Dictionary 
gives  the  first  use  for  tl)e  year  1761,  and  conjectures  its  origin 
as  arising  from  tiie  well-known  Macaroni  Club.  It  seeuis  more 
probable  that  the  term  arose  from  the  popularity  of  Garrick's 


74  SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER      [Act  IV 

others  for  an  inn,  and  my  father's  old  friend  for  an 
innkeeper !  What  a  swaggering  puppy  must  he  take 
me  for !  What  a  silly  puppy  do  I  find  myself  !  There, 
again,  may  I  be  hanged,  my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you 
for  the  bar-maid. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Dear  me !  dear  me !  I  'm  sure 
there  's  nothing  in  my  hehavour  to  put  me  upon  a  level 
with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Marloio.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I  was  in 
for  a  list  of  blunders,  and  could  not  help  making  you 
a  subscriber.  My  stupidity  saw  everything  the  wrong 
way.  I  mistook  your  assiduity  for  assurance,  and  your 
simplicity  for  allurement.   But  it 's  over  —  this  house 

I  no  more  show  my  face  in. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing 
to  disoblige  you.  I  'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to  affront 
any  gentleman  who  has  been  so  polite,  and  said  so 
many  civil  things  to  me.  I  'm  sure  I  sliould  be  sorry 
(pretendijiff  to  cry)  if  he  left  the  family  upon  my 
account.  I  'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  people  said  any- 
thing amiss,  since  I  have  no  fortune  but  my  character. 

Marlorv.  (^Aside.)  By  Heaven  !  she  weeps  !  This  is 
the  first  mark  of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a  modest 
woman,  and  it  touches  me.  (7b  her.')  Excuse  me,  my 
lovely  girl ;  you  are  the  only  part  of  the  family  I  leave 
with  reluctance.  But,  to  be  plain  with  you,  the  dif- 
ference of  our  birth,  fortune,  and  education,  make  an 

The  Male-Coquette,  plaj^ed  at  Drury  Lane  in  1757,  in  which 
a  vonng  woman  (Miss  Macklin)  took  the  part  of  a  sham  Italian, 

II  Marchese  di  Macaroni,  in  ridiculing  the  ex(juisite  {graces  of 
Daffodil  (played  by  Woodward).  The  term  "  macaroni  "  had  the 
•eroadest  use  for  several  decades.  Compare  the  fourth  line  of 
Yankee  Doodle. 


Act  IV]      SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  75 

honorable  connection  impossible  ;  and  I  can  never  har- 
bor a  thought  of  seducing  simplicity  that  trusted  in 
my  honor,  or  bringing  ruin  upon  one  whose  only  fault 
was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (^Asldr.')  Generous  man  I  I  no\f 
begin  to  admire  him.  (To  hini.^  But  I  am  sure  m^ 
family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hardcastle's  ;  and  though 
I  'm  poor,  that 's  no  great  misfortune  to  a  contented 
mind  ;  and,  until  this  moment,  I  never  thought  that  it 
was  bad  to  want  fortune. 

Marlow.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity? 

Miss  Hnrdcastle.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance 
from  one,  that,  if  I  had  a  thousand  pound  I  would  give 
it  all  to. 

Marlow.  (^Aside.')  This  simplicity  bewitches  me 
so,  that  if  I  stay  I  'm  undone.  I  must  make  one  bold 
effort  and  leave  her.  (  To  her.')  Your  partiality  in  my 
favor,  my  dear,  touches  me  most  sensibly  ;  and  were 
I  to  live  for  myself  alone,  I  could  easily  fix  my  choice. 
But  I  owe  too  much  to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too 
much  to  the  authority  of  a  father ;  so  that  —  I  can 
scarcely  speak  it  —  it  affects  me  !  Farewell.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit  till 
now.  He  shall  not  go  if  I  have  power  or  art  to  detain 
him.  I  '11  still  preserve  the  character  in  which  I  stooped 
to  conquer,  but  will  undeceive  my  papa,  who,  perhaps, 
may  laugh  him  out  of  his  resolution.  [Exit. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next 
time.  I  have  done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the  jewels 
again,  that 's  a  sure  thing ;  but  she  believes  it  was  all 
a  mistake  of  the  servants. 


76  SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER      [Act  IV 

Jflss  Neville.  Bat,  my  dear  cousin,  sure  you  won't 
forsake  us  in  this  distress  ?  If  she  in  the  least  suspects 
that  I  am  going  off,  I  shall  certainly  be  locked  up,  or 
3ent  to  my  aunt  Pedigree's,  which  is  ten  times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  damned 
bad  things.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  got  you  a 
pair  of  horses  that  will  fly  like  Whistle  Jacket ;  ^  and 
I  'm  sure  you  can't  say  but  I  have  courted  you  nicely 
before  her  face.  Here  she  comes ;  we  must  court  a  bit 
or  two  more,  for  fear  she  should  suspect  us. 

[They  retire  and  seem  to  fondle. 
Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  AVell,  I  was  gi-eatly  fluttered,  to 
be  sure.  But  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of 
the  servants.  I  shan't  be  easy,  however,  till  they  are 
fairly  married,  and  then  let  her  keep  her  own  fortune. 
But  what  do  I  see  ?  Fondling  together,  as  I  'm  alive. 
I  never  saw  Tony  so  sprightly  before.  Ah  !  have  I 
caught  you,  my  pretty  doves  ?  What,  billing,  exchang- 
inir  stolen  fflances,  and  broken  murmurs  ?  Ah ! 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a  little 
now  and  then,  to  be  sure.  But  there  's  no  love  lost 
between  us. 

Idrs.  Hardcastle.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon 
the  flame,  only  to  make  it  burn  brighter. 

3Iiss  Neville.  Cousin  Tony  pi'omises  to  give  us 
more  of  his  company  at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't  leave 
us  any  more.   It  won't  leave  us.  Cousin  Tony,  will  it  ? 

Tony.  Oh,  it 's  a  pretty  creature !  No,  I  'd  sooner 
leave  my  horse  in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you 

'  "Whistle  Jacket :  A  famous  race-horse.  His  picture  was 
painted  by  George  Stubbs,  A.  R.  A. 


Act  IV]      SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  77 

smile  upon  one  so.   Your  laugh  makes  you  so  becom- 
ing. 

3Iiss  Seville.  Agreeable  cousin  !  Who  can  help  ad- 
miring that  natural  humor,  that  pleasant,  broad,  red, 
thoughtless  (patting  his  cheek'), —  ah!  it's  a  bold  face! 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  Pretty  innocence. 

Tony.  I  'm  sure  I  always  loved  cousin  Con's  hazel 
eyes,  and  her  pretty  long  fingers,  that  she  twists  this 
way  and  that  over  the  haspichoUs,^  like  a  parcel  of 
bobbins. 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  Ah!  he  would  charm  the  bird 
from  the  tree.  I  was  never  so  happy  before.  My  boy 
takes  after  his  father,  poor  Mr.  Lumpkin,  exactly. 
The  jewels,  m}^  dear  Con,  shall  be  yours  incontinently. 
You  shall  have  them.  Is  n't  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear. 
You  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  we  '11  put  off  the 
rest  of  his  education,  like  Dr.  Drowsy 's  sermons,  to  a 
fitter  opportunity. 

Enter  Diggory. 

Diggory.  Where  's  the  Squire  ?  I  have  got  a  letter 
for  your  worshij). 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.  She  reads  all  my 
letters  first. 

Diggory.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your  own 
hands. 

Tony.  Who  does  it  come  from? 

Diggory.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  o'  the  letter 
itself.  [Exit  Diggory. 

Tony.  I  could  wish  to  know,  though.  (^Turning  the 
letter.,  and  gazing  on  it.) 

Miss  Neville.  (^Aside.)  Undone,  undone  !  A  letter 
*  haspicholls  :  A  corrupt  form  of  harpsichord. 


78  SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER      [Act  IV 

to  him  from  Hastings.  I  know  the  hand.  If  my  aunt 
sees  it,  we  are  ruined  forever.  I  '11  keep  her  employed 
a  little  if  I  can.  (To  Mrs.  Hardcastle.^  But  I  have 
not  told  yon,  madam,  of  my  cousin's  smart  answer  just 
now  to  Mr.  Marlow.  We  so  laughed  —  you  must  know, 
madam  —  this  way  a  little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us. 
{They  confer.^ 

Tony.  (^Still  gazing.^  A  damned  cramp  piece  of 
penman shiji  as  ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  I  can  read  your 
print-hand  very  well ;  but  here  there  are  such  handles, 
and  shanks,  and  dashes,  that  one  can  scarce  tell  the 
head  from  the  tail.  To  Anthony  Lumpkin,  Esquire. 
It 's  very  odd,  I  can  read  the  outside  of  my  letters, 
where  my  own  name  is,  well  enough.  But  when  I  come 
to  open  it,  it 's  all  —  buzz.  That's  hard,  very  hard; 
for  the  inside  of  the  letter  is  always  the  cream  of  the 
correspondence. 

3Irs.  Ilardcastle.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Very  well,  very  well. 
And  so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the  philosopher. 

Miss  Neville.  Yes,  madam ;  but  you  must  hear  the 
rest,  madam.  A  little  more  this  way,  or  he  may  hear 
us.  You  '11  hear  how  he  puzzled  him  again. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now 
himself,  methinks. 

Tony.  (^  Still  gazing.')  A  damned  up-and-down  hand, 
as  if  it  was  disguised  in  liquor.  (^Reading.)  Dear 
Sir, —  Ay,  that 's  that.  Then  there  's  an  Ji,  and  a  T, 
and  an  S,  but  whether  the  next  be  an  izzard  ^  or  an 
R,  confound  me,  I  cannot  tell ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  What 's  that,  my  dear ;  can  I  give 
you  any  assistance? 

'  izzard  :  An  old  name  for  the  letter  Z. 


Act  IV]      SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  79 

Miss  Neville.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it.  Nobody 
reads  a  cramp  hand  better  than  I.  (TiDitchijig  the  let- 
ter from  her.')   Do  you  know  who  it  is  from? 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger,  the 
feeder. 

3Iiss  Neville.  Ay,  so  it  is.  {Pretending  to  read.) 
Dear  Squire,  Hoping  that  you  're  in  health,  as  1  am 
at  this  present.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Shake-bag  club' 
has  cut  the  gentlemen  of  the  Goose-green  quite  out  of 
feather.  The  odds  —  um  —  odd  battle  —  um  —  lonjj 
fighting  —  um  —  here,  here,  it 's  all  about  cocks,  and 
fighting ;  it 's  of  no  consequence ;  here,  put  it  up,  put 
it  up.   (  Thrusting  the  C7'umpled  letter  upon  him.) 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it 's  of  all  the  conse- 
quence in  the  world !  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of  it 
for  a  guinea.  Here,  mother,  do  you  make  it  out.  Of 
no  consequence !   {Giving  Mrs.  Ilardcastle  the  letter.) 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  How 's  this  ?  {Heads.)  Dear 
Squii'e,  I'm  noio  waiting  for  Miss  Neville  toith  a 
postchaise  and  pair,  at  the  bottom,  of  the  garden^  hut 
I fi)id  my  horses  yet  unahle  to  perform  the  journey. 
I  expect  you  ^U  assist  tis  with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses^ 
as  yon  promised.  Despatch  is  necessary,  as  the  hag 
—  ay,  the  hag — your  mother,,  will  otherwise  suspect 
us.  Flours,  Hastings.  Grant  me  patience.  I  shall  rui^ 
distracted  !  My  rage  chokes  me ! 

Jliss  Neville.  I  hope,  madam,  you  '11  suspend  your 
resentment  for  a  few  moments,  and  not  impute  to  me 
any  impertinence,  or  sinister  design,  that  belongs  to 
another. 

*  Shake-bag  club  :  A  shake-bag  is  a  large  fighting  cock. 
(Standard  Dictionary.) 


80  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER      [Act  IV 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  QCiLvtseying  very  low.^  Fine 
spoken,  madam ;  you  are  most  miraculously  polite 
and  engaging,  and  quite  the  very  pink  of  courtesy  and 
circumspection,  madam.  (^Changing  her  tone.)  And 
you,  you  great  ill-fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce  sens 
enough  to  keep  your  mouth  shut,  —  were  you  tot 
joined  against  me  ?  But  I  '11  defeat  all  your  plots  in 
a  moment.  As  for  you,  madam,  since  you  have  got  a 
pair  of  fresh  horses  ready,  it  would  be  cruel  to  dis- 
appoint them.  So,  if  you  please,  instead  of  running 
away  with  your  spark,  prepare,  this  very  moment,  to 
run  off  with  me.  Your  old  Aunt  Pedigree  will  keep 
you  secure,  I  '11  warrant  me.  You,  too,  sir,  may  mount 
your  horse,  and  guard  us  upon  the  way.  Here,  Thomas, 
Roger,  Diggory !  I  "11  show  you  that  I  wish  you  bet- 
ter than  you  do  yourselves.  {Exit. 

Miss  Neville.    So,  now  I  'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.    Ay,  that 's  a  sure  thing. 

3Iiss  Neville.  What  better  could  be  expected  from 
being  connected  with  such  a  stupid  fool,  —  and  after 
all  the  nods  and  signs  I  made  him ! 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own  clever* 
ness,  and  not  my  stupidity,  that  did  your  business. 
You  were  so  nice  and  so  busy  with  your  Shake-bags 
and  Goose-greens  that  I  thought  you  could  never  be 
making  believe. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant  that  you 
have  shown  my  letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was  this  well 
done,  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  Here  's  another.  Ask  miss,  there,  who  be- 
trayed you.    Ecod  !  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 


Act  IV]      SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  81 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marloio.  So,  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among 
you.  Rendered  contemptible,  driven  into  ill-manners, 
despised,  insulted,  laughed  at. 

Tony.  Here  's  another.  We  shall  have  old  Bedlam 
broke  loose  presently. 

Miss  Neville.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gentleman  to 
whom  we  all  owe  every  obligation. 

Marlow.  What  can  I  say  to  him  ?  A  mere  boy,  an 
idiot,  whose  ig-norance  and  age  are  a  protection. 

Hastings.  A  poor,  contemptible  booby,  that  would 
but  disgrace  correction. 

Miss  Neville.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice  enough 
to  make  himself  merry  with  all  our  embarrassments. 

Hastings.    An  insensible  cub. 

3Iarlow.  Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Baw  !  damme,  but  I  '11  fight  you  both,  one 
after  the  other,  —  with  baskets. 

Marlow.  As  for  him,  he  's  below  resentment.  But 
your  conduct,  Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  explanation. 
You  knew  of  my  mistakes,  yet  would  not  undeceive 
me. 

Hastings.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  disap- 
pointments, is  this  a  time  for  explanations  ?  It  is  not 
friendly,  Mr.  Marlow. 

Marlotv.    But,  sir  — 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on  your 
mistake,  till  it  was  too  late  to  undeceive  you.  B<i 
pacified. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  My  mistress  desires  you  '11  get  ready  im« 
mediately,  madam.    The  horses  are  putting  to.   YouJ 


82  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER      [Act  IV 

hat  and  things  are  in  the  next  room.  We  are  to  go 
thirty  miles  before  morning.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Seville.    Well,  well,  I  '11  come  presently. 

Jfarlow.  {To  Hastings.^  Was  it  well  done,  sir, 
to  assist  in  rendering  me  ridiculous  ?  To  hang  me  out 
for  the  scorn  of  all  my  acquaintance  ?  Depend  upon 
it,  sir,  I  shall  expect  an  explanation. 

Hastings.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you  're  upon 
that  subject,  to  deliver  what  I  entrusted  to  yourself  to 
the  care  of  another,  sir  ? 

Jiiss  Neville.  Mr.  Hastings !  Mr.  Marlow !  Why 
will  you  increase  my  distress  by  this  groundless  dis- 
pute ?    I  implore,  I  entreat  you  — 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  cloak,  madam.  My  mistress  is  im- 
patient. 

Miss  Neville.  I  come.  {Exit  Servant.^  Pray,  be 
pacified.  If  I  leave  you  thus,  I  shall  die  with  appre- 
hension ! 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam.  The 
horses  are  waiting.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Neville.  Oh,  Mr.  Marlow !  if  you  knew  what 
a  scene  of  constraint  and  ill-nature  lies  before  me,  I 
am  sure  it  would  convert  your  resentment  into  pity. 

3farlow.  I  'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  passions 
that  I  don't  know  what  I  do.  Forgive  me,  madam. 
George,  forgive  me.  You  know  my  hasty  temper,  and 
should  not  exasperate  it. 

Hastings.  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my  only 
excuse. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you  have 


ActVj        she  stoops  to  conquer  83 

that  esteem  for  me  that  I  think,  that  I  am  sure  you 
have,  your  constancy  for  three  years  will  but  increase, 
the  happiness  of  our  future  connection.  If  — 

Jim.  Ilardcantle.  (^Within.)  Miss  Neville!  Con- 
stance !  why,  Constance,  I  say  ! 

Miss  Neville.  I  'm  coming  !  Well,  constancy.  Re- 
member, constancy  is  the  word.  [Exit. 

Hastings.  My  heart !  how  can  I  support  this !  To 
be  so  near  happiness,  and  such  happiness ! 

Marlow.  (^To  Tony.')  You  see  now,  young  gentle- 
man, the  effects  of  your  folly.  What  might  be  amuse- 
ment to  you  is  here  disappointment,  and  even  distress. 

Tony.  (^From  a  reverie.)  Ecod,  I  have  hit  it.  It 's 
here  !  Your  hands.  Yours,  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky. 
—  My  boots  there,  ho  I  —  Meet  me,  two  hours  hence, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden ;  and  if  you  don't  find  Tony 
Lumpkin  a  more  good-natured  fellow  than  you  thought 
for,  I  '11  give  you  leave  to  take  my  best  horse,  and  Bet 
Bouncer  into  the  bargain  !  Come  along.  My  boots,  ho .' 

lExemt. 


ACT  THE  FIFTH 

Scene  I,  The  house. 

Enter  Hastinys  and  Servant. 

Hastings.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville 
^Irive  off,  you  say? 

Servant.  Yes,  j^our  honor.  They  went  off  in  a  post- 
coach,  and  the  young  Squire  went  on  horseback, 
They  re  thirty  miles  off  by  this  time. 

Hastings.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over. 


84  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER       [Act  V 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived.  He 
and  the  old  gentleman  of  the  house  have  been  laugh- 
ing at  Mr.  Marlow's  mistake  this  half  hour.  They  are 
coming  this  way.  [Exif 

Hastings.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.  So  now  to  mv 
fruitless  appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
This  is  about  the  time.  {Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  The  peremptory  tone  in 
which  he  sent  forth  his  sublime  commands  ! 

Sir  Charles.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  suppose 
he  treated  all  your  advances. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something 
in  me  above  a  common  innkeeper,  too. 

Sir  Charles.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for  an 
uncommon  innkeeper  ;  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I  'm  in  too  good  spirits  to  think 
of  anything  but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this  union  of 
our  families  will  make  our  personal  friendships  heredi- 
tary ;  and  though  my  daughter's  fortune  is  but  small  — 

Sir  Charles.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune 
to  me  ?  My  son  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  competence 
already,  and  can  want  nothing  but  a  good  and  virtuous 
girl  to  share  his  happiness  and  increase  it.  If  they  like 
each  other,  as  you  say  they  do  — 

Hardcastle.  If,  man !  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each 
other.  My  daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Charles.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves, 
you  know. 

Hardcastle.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warm.- 
est  manner,  myself  ;  and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out 
of  your  ifs,  I  warrant  him. 


Scene  I]     SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  85 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marloio.  I  come,  sir,  once  more,  to  ask  pardon  for 
my  strange  conduct.  I  can  scarce  reflect  on  my  inso- 
lence without  confusion. 

Hardcastle.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too 
gravely.  An  hour  or  two's  laughing  with  my  daughter 
will  set  all  to  rights  again.  She  '11  never  like  you  the 
worse  for  it. 

Marlow.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  appro- 
bation. 

Hardcastle.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr 
Marlow ;  if  I  am  not  deceived,  you  have  something 
more  than  approbation  thereabouts.  You  take  me  ? 

Marlow.  Really,  sir,  I  have  not  that  happiness. 

Hardcastle.  Come,  boy,  I  'm  an  old  fellow,  and 
know  what 's  what  as  well  as  you  that  are  younger.  I 
know  what  has  passed  between  you  ;  but  mum. 

Marlow.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  passed  between  us 
but  the  most  profound  respect  on  my  side,  and  the 
most  distant  reserve  on  hers.  You  don't  think,  sir, 
that  my  impudence  has  been  passed  upon  all  the  rest 
of  the  family  ? 

Hardcastle.  Impudence !  No,  I  don't  say  that  — 
not  quite  impudence  —  though  girls  like  to  be  played 
with,  and  rumpled  a  little,  too,  sometimes.  But  she 
has  told  no  tales,  I  assure  you. 

Marloio.  I  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  well,  I  like  modesty  in  its  place 
well  enough  ;  but  this  is  over-acting,  young  gentle- 
man. You  may  be  open.  Your  father  and  I  will  like 
you  the  better  for  it. 

Marlow.  May  I  die,  sir,  if  I  ever  — 


86  SHE  STOOrS  TO  CONQUER       [Act  V 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you  she  don't  dislike  you ;  and 
as  I  am  sure  you  like  her  — 

Marlow.  Dear  sir,  —  I  protest,  sir  — 

Hardcastle.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  ly 
joined  as  fast  as  the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Marlow.  But  hear  me,  sir  — 

Hardcastle.  Your  father  approves  the  match ;  I 
admire  it ;  every  moment's  delay  will  be  doiiig  mis? 
chief;  so  — 

Marlow.  But  why  won't  you  hear  me  ?  By  all  tha;t  's 
just  and  true,  I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle  the  slight- 
est mark  of  my  attachment,  or  even  the  most  distant 
hint  to  suspect  me  of  affection.  We  had  but  one  inter- 
view, and  that  was  formal,  modest,  and  uninteresting. 

Hardcastle.  (^Aside.')  This  fellow's  formal,  modest 
impudence  is  beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Charles.  And  yovi  never  grasped  her  hand,  or 
made  any  protestations  ? 

Marlow.  As  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down  in 
obedience  to  your  commands.  I  saw  the  lady  without 
emotion,  and  parted  without  reluctance.  I  hope  you  '11 
exact  no  further  proofs  of  my  duty,  nor  prevent  me 
from  leaving  a  house  in  which  I  suffer  so  many  morti- 
fications. {Exit. 

Sir  Charles.  I  'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sincerity 
with  which  he  parted. 

Ha?'dcastle.  And  I  'm  astonished  at  the  deliberate 
intrepidity  of  his  assurance. 

Sir  Charles.  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honor  upon 
his  truth. 

Hardcastle.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would 
stake  my  happiness  upon  her  veracity. 


Scene  I]     SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  8? 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us 
sincerely,  and  without  reserve  ;  has  Mr.  Marlow  made 
you  any  professions  of  love  and  affection  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  sir. 
But  since  you  require  unreserved  sincerity,  1  think 
he  has. 

Hardcastle.   (^To  Sir  Charles.')  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and  my 
son  had  more  than  one  interview  ? 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  several. 

Hardcastle.   (7b  Sir  Charles.)  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  But  did  he  profess  any  attachment? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  lasting  one. 

Sir  Charles,  Did  he  talk  of  love  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Much,  sir. 

Sir  Charles.  Amazing !  And  ail  this  formally  ? 

3Hss  Hardcastle.  Formally. 

Hardcastle.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  sat* 
isfied. 

Sir  Charles.  And  how  did  he  behave,  madam  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  As  most  professed  admirers  do ; 
said  some  civil  things  of  my  face ;  talked  much  of  his 
want  of  merit,  and  the  greatness  of  mine  ;  mentioned 
his  heart,  gave  a  short  tragedy  speech,  and  ended  with 
pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Charles.  Now  I  'm  perfectly  convinced,  indeed. 
I  know  his  conversation  among  women  to  be  modest 
and  submissive.  This  forward,  canting,  ranting  man- 
ner by  no  means  describes  him,  and,  I  am  confident, 
he  never  sate  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should  ecu 


88  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER       [Act  V 

vince  you  to  your  face  of  my  sincerity?  If  you  and 
my  papa,  in  about  half  an  hour,  will  place  yourselves 
behind  that  screen,  you  shall  hear  him  declare  his  pajB- 
sion  to  me  in  person. 

/Sir  Charles.  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him  what  you 
describe,  all  my  happiness  in  him  must  have  an  end. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  you  don't  find  him  what 
I  describe  —  I  fear  my  happiness  must  never  have  a 
beginning:. 


■'o' 


Scene  II,  The  back  of  the  garden. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  What  an  idiot  am  I  to  wait  here  for  a 
fellow  who  probably  takes  a  delight  in  mortifying  me. 
He  never  intended  to  be  punctual,  and  I  '11  wait  no 
longer.  What  do  I  see?  It  is  he,  and  perhaps  with 
news  of  my  Constance. 

Enter  Tony,  hooted  and  spattered.^ 

Hastings.  My  honest  Squire  !  I  now  find  you  a  man 
of  your  word.  This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I  'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend  you 
have  in  the  world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This  riding  by 
night,  by  the  bye,  is  cursedly  tiresome.  It  has  shook 
me  worse  than  the  basket  of  a  stage-coach. 

Hastings.  But  how?  where  did  you  leave  your 
fellow-travellers?  Are  they  in  safety?  Are  they 
housed  ? 

Tony.  Five  and  twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and  a 

'  spattered:  An  unusual  verbal  form  from  "  spat,"  an  abbre- 
viation of  "  spatterdash,"  meaning  a  cloth  gaiter,  originally  used 
for  riding. 


Scene  II]     SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  89 

half  is  no  such  bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts  havo 
Binoked  for  it :  rabbit  me  !  but  I  'd  rather  ride  forty 
miles  after  a  fox,  than  ten  with  such  varment. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the  ladies? 
I  die  with  impatience. 

Tony.  Left  them  !  Why,  where  should  I  leave  them 
but  where  I  found  them? 

Hastings.  This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.  What's  that  goes 
round  the  house,  and  round  the  house,  and  never 
touches  the  house? 

Hastings.  I  'm  still  astray. 

Tony.  Why,  that 's  it,  mon.  I  have  led  them  astray. 
By  jingo,  there 's  not  a  pond  nor  slough  within  five 
miles  of  the  place  but  they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hastings.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  I  understand ;  you  took 
them  in  a  round,  while  they  supposed  themselves  going 
forward.  And  so  you  have  at  last  brought  them  home 
again. 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them  down 
Feather-bed  lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud.  I 
then  rattled  them  crack  over  the  stones  of  Up-and- 
down  Hill.  I  then  introduced  them  to  the  gibbet  on 
Heavy-tree  Heath ;  and  from  that,  with  a  circumbendi- 
bus,^ I  fairly  lodged  them  in  the  horse-pond  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  garden. 

Hastings.  But  no  accident,  I  hope? 

Tony.  No,  no ;  only  mother  is  confoundedly  fright- 
ened. She  thinks  herself  forty  miles  off.  She  's  sick 
of  the  journey ;  and  the  cattle  can  scarce  crawl.  So, 
if  your  own  horses  be  ready,  you  may  whip  off  with 
*  circumbendibus:  A  roundabout  course  or  method. 


90  SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER       [Act  V 

Cousin,  and  I  '11  be  bound  that  no  soul  here  can  budge 
a  foot  to  follow  you. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grateful? 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it 's  "  dear  friend,"  "  noble  Squire." 
Just  now,  it  was  all  "  idiot,"  "  cub,"  and  run  me 
through  the  guts.  Damn  your  way  of  fighting,  I  say. 
After  we  take  a  knock  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
we  kiss  and  be  friends.  But  if  you  had  run  me  through 
the  guts,  then  I  should  be  dead,  and  you  might  go  kiss 
the  hangman. 

Hastings.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must  hasten  to 
relieve  Miss  Neville ;  if  you  keep  the  old  lady  employed, 
1  promise  to  take  care  of  the  young  one. 

Tony.    Never  fear  me.    Here  she  comes.  Vanish! 
(^Exit  Hastings.')  She  's  got  from  the  pond,  and  drag- 
gled up  to  the  waist  like  a  mermaid. 
Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  Tony,  I  'm  killed !  Shook  * 
Battered  to  death !  I  shall  never  survive  it.  That  last 
jolt,  that  laid  us  against  the  quickset  hedge,  has  done 
my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma,  it  was  all  your  own  fault. 
You  would  be  for  running  away  by  night,  without 
knowing  one  inch  of  tlie  way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again.  I 
never  met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey. 
Drenched  in  the  mud,  overturned  in  a  ditch,  stuck  fast 
in  a  slough,  jolted  to  a  jelly,  and  at  last  to  lose  our 
way!    Whereabouts  do  you  think  we  are,  Tony? 

Tony.  By  my  guess,  we  should  be  upon  Crack-skulli 
Common,  about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O  lud !  O  lud !  The  most  noto- 


Scene  II]     SHE   STOOPS   TO  CONQUER  91 

rioiis  spot  in  all  the  country.   We  only  want  a  robbery 
to  make  a  complete  night  on  't. 

Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma;  don't  be  afraid. 
Two  of  the  five  that  kept  here  are  hanged,  and  the 
other  three  may  not  find  us.  Don't  be  afraid.  Is  that 
a  man  that 's  galloping  behind  us  ?  No,  it 's  only  a 
tree.   Don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  anything  like  a  black  hat  moving 
behind  the  thicket? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  death ! 

Tony.  No,  it 's  only  a  cow.  Don't  be  afraid, 
mamma,  don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  As  I  'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man 
coming  towards  us.  Ah,  I  am  sure  on  't !  If  he  per- 
ceives us,  we  are  undone. 

Tony.  (^ Aside. ^  Father-in-law,  by  all  that 's  un- 
lucky, come  to  take  one  of  his  night  walks.  (7b  her.^ 
Ah,  it 's  a  highwayman,  with  pistols  as  long  as  my 
arm.  A  damned  ill-looking  fellow  ! 

3Irs.  Hardcastle.  Good  Heaven  defend  us !  He 
approaches. 

Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that  thicket,  and 
leave  me  to  manage  him.  If  there  be  any  danger,  I  '11 
cough  and  cry  hem.  When  I  cough,  be  sure  to  keep 
close.  (^Mrs.  Hardcastle  hides  behind  a  tree  in  the 
uack  scene.') 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I  'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of 
people  in  want  of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you  ?  I  did 
not  expect  you  so  soon  back.  Are  your  mother  and  her 
charge  in  safety  ? 


92  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER        [Act  V 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  Aunt  Pedigree's.  Hem. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  QFrom  behind.^  All,  death !  I 
find  there 's  danger. 

Hardcastle.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours  ;  sure  that 's 
too  much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make  short 
journeys,  as  they  say.   Hem. 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  (^From  behind.^  Sure,  he  '11  do 
the  dear  boy  no  harm. 

Ilardcastle.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here ;  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I  was 
saying  that  forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good 
going.  Hem.  As  to  be  sure  it  was.  Hem.  I  have  got 
a  sort  of  cold  by  being  out  in  the  air.  We  '11  go  in, 
if  you  please.  Hem. 

Hardcastle.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself,  you  did 
not  answer  yourself.  I  'm  certain  I  heard  two  voices, 
and  resolved  (raising  his  voice')  to  find  the  other  out. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (From  behind.)  Oh !  he  's  com- 
ing to  find  me  out.   Oh  ! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you?  Hem. 
I  '11  lay  down  my  life  for  the  truth  —  hem  —  I  '11  tell 
you  all,  sir.   (Detaining  him.) 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained.  I 
insist  on  seeing.  It 's  in  vain  to  expect  I  '11  believe 
■fou. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Running  forward  from  behind.) 
0  hid  !  he  '11  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling !  Here, 
good  gentleman,  whet  your  rage  upon  me.  Take  my 
money,  my  life,  but  spare  that  young  gentleman  ;  spare 
my  child,  if  you  have  any  mercy. 


Scene  II]     SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  93 

Hardcastle.  My  wife,  as  I  'm  a  Christian !  From 
whence  can  she  come,  or  what  does  she  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (^Kneeling.')  Take  compassion  on 
us,  good  Mr.  Highwayman.  Take  our  money,  our 
watches,  all  we  have,  but  spare  our  lives.  We  will 
never  bring  you  to  justice  ;  indeed  we  won't,  good  Mr. 
Highwayman. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  the  woman 's  out  of  her  senses. 
What,  Dorothy,  don't  you  know  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I  'm  alive ! 
My  fears  blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could  have 
expected  to  meet  you  here,  in  this  frightful  place,  so 
far  from  home  ?   What  has  brought  you  to  follow  us  ? 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost  your 
wits  ?  So  far  from  home,  when  you  are  within  forty 
yards  of  your  own  door!  (Jb  him.}  This  is  one  of 
your  old  tricks,  you  graceless  rogue,  you!  (7b  her.} 
Don't  you  know  the  gate,  and  the  mulberry  tree  ;  and 
don't  you  remember  the  horse-pond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse- 
pond  as  long  as  I  live  ;  I  have  caught  my  death  in  it. 
(  To  Tony.}  And  is  it  to  you,  you  graceless  varlet,  I 
owe  all  this  ?  I  '11  teach  you  to  abuse  your  mother, 
I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have 
spoiled  me,  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on  't. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  '11  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  stage.  ExiU 

Hardcastle.  There 's  morality,  however,  in  his  reply 

iExUs 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you  delibt 


M  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER        [ActV 

erate  thus  ?  If  we  delay  a  inoment,  all  is  lost  forever. 
Phick  up  a  little  resolution,  and  we  shall  soon  be  out 
of  the  reach  of  her  malignity. 

Miss  Neville.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are 
so  sunk  with  the  agitations  I  have  sufPered,  that  I  am 
unable  to  face  any  new  danger.  Two  or  three  years' 
patience  will  at  last  crown  us  with  happiness. 

Hastings.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  incon- 
stancy. Let  us  fly,  my  charmer !  Let  us  date  our  hap- 
piness from  this  very  moment.  Perish  fortune.  Love 
and  content  will  increase  what  we  possess  beyond  a 
monarch's  revenue.  Let  me  prevail ! 

Miss  Neville.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no.  Prudence  once 
more  comes  to  ray  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its  dictates. 
In  the  moment  of  passion,  fortune  may  be  despised, 
but  it  ever  produces  a  lasting  repentance.  I  'm  resolved 
to  apply  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's  compassion  and  justice 
for  redress. 

Hastings.  But  though  he  had  the  will  he  has  not 
the  power  to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Neville.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon  that 
I  am  resolved  to  rely. 

Hastings.  I  have  no  hopes.  But,  since  you  persist, 
I  must  reluctantly  obey  you.  {Ezemt. 


Scene  III,  The  house. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  Miss  Hardcasfle. 

Sir  Charles.  What  a  situation  am  1  in!  If  what 
you  say  appears,  I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If 
4ehat  he  says  be  true,  I  shall  then  lose  one  that,  of  all 
others,  I  most  wished  for  a  daughter. 


Scene  III]     SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  93 

3Ilss  Ilardcastle.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation ; 
and  to  show  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I 
directed,  you  shall  hear  his  explicit  declaration.  But 
he  comes. 

Sir  Charles.  I  '11  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to 
the  appointment.  [Exit  Sir  Charles. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out,  I  come 
once  more  to  take  leave  ;  nor  did  I,  till  this  moment, 
know  the  pain  I  feel  in  the  separation. 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  (^In  her  onm  natural  maimer.") 
I  believe  these  sufferings  cannot  be  very  gi-eat,  sir, 
which  you  can  so  easily  remove.  A  day  or  two  longer, 
perhaps,  might  lessen  your  uneasiness,  by  showing 
the  little  value  of  what  you  now  think  proper  to 
regret. 

Marlow.  (^Aside.')  This  girl  every  moment  improves 
upon  me.  (Jb  Aer.)  It  must  not  be,  madam  ;  I  have 
already  trifled  too  long  with  my  heart.  My  very  pride 
begins  to  submit  to  my  passion.  The  disparity  of  edu- 
cation and  fortune,  the  anger  of  a  parent,  and  the 
contempt  of  my  equals  begin  to  lose  their  weight ;  and 
nothing  can  restore  me  to  myself  but  this  painful  effort 
of  resolution. 

3Iiss  Hardcastle.  Then  go,  sir  ;  I  '11  urge  nothing 
more  to  detain  you.  Though  my  family  be  as  good  as 
hers  you  came  down  to  visit,  and  my  education,  I  hope, 
not  inferior,  what  are  these  advantages  without  equal 
affluence?  I  must  remain  contented  with  the  slight 
approbation  of  imputed  merit ;  I  must  have  only  the 
mockery  of  your  addresses,  while  all  your  serious  aims 
are  fixed  on  fortune. 


96  SHE  STOOPS  TO  uONQUER        [Act  V 

Enter  Hardcastle  and  Sir  Charles  Marlow,from  behind. 

Sir  Charles.  Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  ay ;  make  no  noise,  I  '11  engage 
my  Kate  covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marlow.  By  heavens,  madam,  fortune  was  ever  my 
smallest  consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first  caught 
my  eys ;  for  who  could  see  that  without  emotion  ?  But 
every  moment  that  I  converse  with  you,  steals  in  some 
new  grace,  heightens  the  picture,  and  gives  it  stronger 
expression.  What  at  first  seemed  rustic  plainness,  now 
appears  refined  simplicity.  What  seemed  forward  as- 
surance, now  strikes  me  as  the  result  of  courageous 
innocence  and  conscious  virtue. 

Sir  Charles.  What  can  it  mean  ?  He  amazes  me ! 

Hardcastle.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.  Hush ! 

Marlow.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam,  and 
I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  discernment, 
when  he  sees  you,  to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  can- 
not detain  you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a  connec- 
tion in  which  there  is  the  smallest  room  for  repent- 
ance ?  Do  you  think  I  would  take  the  mean  advantage 
of  a  transient  passion  to  load  you  with  confusion  ?  Do 
you  think  I  could  ever  relish  that  happiness  which  was 
acquired  by  lessening  yours  ? 

Marlow.  By  all  that 's  good,  I  can  have  no  hap- 
piness but  what 's  in  your  power  to  grant  me !  Nor 
shall  I  ever  feel  repentance  but  in  not  having  seen 
your  merits  before.  I  will  stay,  even  contrary  to  your 
wishes ;  and  though  you  should  persist  to  shun  me,  I 
will  make  my  respectful  assiduities  atone  for  the  levity 
of  my  past  conduct. 


Scene  III]     SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  97 

Jfiss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  desist. 
As  our  acquaintance  began,  so  let  it  end,  in  indiffer- 
ence. I  might  have  given  an  hour  or  two  to  levity  ; 
but  seriously,  Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think  I  could  ever 
submit  to  a  connection  where  I  must  appear  mer- 
cenary,  and  you  imjDrudent?  Do  you  think  I  could 
ever  catch  at  the  confident  addresses  of  a  secure  ad- 
mirer ? 

Marloio.  {Kneeling?)  Does  this  look  like  security? 
Does  this  look  like  confidence?  No,  madam,  every 
moment  that  shows  me  your  merit,  only  serves  to  in- 
crease my  diffidence  and  confusion.  Here  let  me  con- 
tinue — 

Sir  Charles.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  Charles, 
Charles,  how  hast  thou  deceived  me  !  Is  this  your  in- 
difference, your  uninteresting  conversation  ? 

Hardea&tle.  Your  cold  contempt !  your  formal  inter- 
view !  What  have  you  to  say  now  ? 

Marlow.  That  I  'm  all  amazement !  What  can  it 
mean? 

Hardcastle,  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay 
things  at  pleasure ;  that  you  can  address  a  lady  in 
private,  and  deny  it  in  public ;  that  you  have  one  story 
for  us,  and  another  for  my  daughter. 

Marlow.  Daughter !  —  this  lady  your  daughter  ? 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  my  only  daughter  —  my  Kate ; 
whose  else  should  she  be  ? 

Marlow.  Oh,  the  devil ! 

3£iss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical  tall, 
squinting  lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me  for  (curt- 
seying^ ;  she  that  you  addressed  as  the  mild,  mod- 
est, sentimental   man  of  gravity,  and  the  bold,  for* 


98  SHE   STOOPS  TO  CONQUER       [Act  V 

ward,  agreeable  Rattle  of  the  Ladies'  Club.  Hal 
ha!  ha! 

Marlow.  Zounds,  there's  no  bearing  this ;  it 's  worse 
than  death ! 

Miss  Hardcasile.  In  which  of  your  characters,  sir, 
wiU  you  give  us  leave  to  address  you  ?  As  the  falter- 
ing gentleman,  with  looks  on  the  ground,  that  si>eaks 
just  to  be  heard,  and  hates  hypocrisy ;  or  the  loud, 
confident  creature,  that  keeps  it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap, 
and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till  three  in  the  morn- 
ing? Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Marlow.  Oh,  curse  on  my  noisy  head !  I  never 
attempted  to  be  impudent  yet  that  I  was  not  taken 
down.  I  must  be  gone. 

Hardcasile.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall 
not.  I  see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  rejoiced  to 
find  it.  You  shall  not,  sir,  I  tell  you.  I  know  she  '11 
forgive  you.  Won't  you  forgive  him,  Kate?  We'll 
all  forgive  you.  Take  courage,  man. 

[They  retire,  she  tormenting  hiin,  to  the  back  scene- 
Enter  Mrs.  Hardcasile  and  Tony. 

Mrs.  Hardcasile.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.'  Let 
them  go,  I  care  not. 

Hardcasile.  Who  gone  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcasile.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentle- 
man, Mr.  Hastings,  from  town.  He  who  came  down 
with  our  modest  visitor  here. 

Sir  Charles.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings! 
As  worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not 
have  made  a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hardcasile.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  'm 
proud  of  the  connection. 


Scene  III]     SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  99 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the 
lady,  he  has  not  taken  her  fortune ;  that  remains  in 
this  family  to  console  us  for  her  loss. 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so 
mercenary  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  that 's  my  affair,  not  yours. 

Hardcastle.  But  you  know  if  your  son,  when  of 
age,  refuses  to  marry  his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune  is 
then  at  her  own  disposal. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  he 's  not  of  age,  and  she 
has  not  thought  proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (^Aside.^  What,  returned  so  soon? 
I  begin  not  to  like  it. 

Hastings.  {To  Hardcastle.^  For  ray  Jate  attempt 
to  fly  off  with  your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  be 
my  punishment.  We  are  now  come  back,  to  appeal 
from  your  justice  to  your  humanity.  By  her  father's 
consent  I  first  paid  her  my  addresses,  and  our  passions 
were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Neville.  Since  his  death,  I  have  l^een  obliged 
to  stoop  to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an 
hour  of  levity,  I  was  ready  even  to  give  up  my  fortune 
to  secure  my  choice.  But  I  am  now  recovered  from 
the  delusion,  and  hope  from  your  tenderness  what  is 
denied  me  from  a  nearer  connection. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pshaw !  pshaw  ;  this  is  all  but 
the  whining  end  of  a  modern  novel.  ^ 

*  'whining  end  of  a  modern  novel :  Goldsmith  had  in  The 
Critical  Review  for  1760  written  a  satire  on  this  style  of  milk- 
and-water  novel  under  the  romantic  title  of  Jemima  and  Louisa, 
See  note  to  p.  48. 


100  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER        [Act  V 

Hardcastle.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I  'm  glad  they  're 
come  back  to  reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony^ 
boy.  Do  you  refuse  this  lady's  hand,  whom  I  now  offer 
you? 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing?  You  know  I 
can't  refuse  her  till  I  'm  of  age,  father. 

Hardcastle.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age. 
boy,  was  likely  to  conduce  to  your  improvement,  I  con- 
curred with  your  mother's  desire  to  keep  it  secret.  But 
since  I  find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong  use,  I  must  now 
declare  you  have  been  of  age  this  three  months. 

Tony.  Of  age !  Am  I  of  age,  father  ? 

Hardcastle.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you  '11  see  the  first  use  I  '11  make  of 
my  liberty.  (^Taking  Miss  Neville^ s  hand.^  Witness 
all  men,  by  these  presents,  that  I,  Anthony  Lumpkin, 
Esquire,  of  blank  place,  refuse  you,  Constantia  Ne- 
ville, spinster,  of  no  place  at  all,  for  my  true  and  law- 
ful wife.  So  Constance  Neville  may  marry  whom  she 
pleases,  and  Tony  Lumpkin  is  his  own  man  again ! 

Sir  Charles.  Oh,  brave  Squire  ! 

Hastings.  My  worthy  friend  ! 

3frs.  Hardcastle.  My  undutiful  offspring . 

Marlow.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy  sin- 
cerely !  And  could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant 
here  to  be  less  arbitrary,  I  should  be  the  happiest  maD 
alive,  if  you  would  return  me  the  favor. 

Hastings.  {To  Miss  Hardcastle.')  Come,  madam^ 
you  are  now  driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all  your 
contrivances.  I  know  you  like  him,  I  'm  sure  he  loves 
you,  and  you  must  and  shall  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  (^Joining  their  hands.)  And  I  say  so, 


Scene  III]     SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  101 

too.  And,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife 
as  she  has  a  daughter,  I  don't  believe  you  '11  ever  re^ 
pent  your  bargain.  So  now  to  supper.  To-morrow  we 
shall  gather  all  the  poor  of  the  parish  about  us,  and 
the  Mistakes  of  the  Night  shall  be  crowned  with  a 
merry  morning.  So,  boy,  take  her ;  and  as  you  have 
been  mistaken  in  the  mistress,  my  wish  is,  that  you 
may  never  be  mistaken  in  the  wife.  [Exeunt  Omnet 


EPILOGUE 
Br  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

SPOKEN   BY  MRS.   BULKLEY   IN   THE   CHARACTER  OF  MISI 
HARDCASTLE. 

Well,  having  stooped  to  conquer  with  success. 

And  gained  a  husband  without  aid  from  dress, 

Still,  as  a  bar-maid,  I  could  wish  it  too, 

As  I  have  conquered  him  to  conquer  you : 

And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution, 

That  pretty  bar-maids  have  done  execution. 

Our  life  is  all  a  play,  composed  to  please; 

"  We  have  our  exits  *  and  our  entrances." 

The  first  act  shows  ^  the  simple  country  maid, 

Harmless  and  young,  of  everything  afraid  ; 

Blushes  when  hired,  and  with  unmeaning  action, 

*'I  hopes  as  how  to  give  you  satisfaction." 

Her  second  act  displays  a  livelier  scene,  — 

Th'  unblushing  bar-maid  of  a  country  inn. 

Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market  caters, 

Talks  loud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scolds  the  waiters 

Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she  soars, 

The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  connoisseurs.' 

On  Squires  and  Cits  she  there  displays  her  arts, 

»  "  We  have  our  exits  "  ;  As  You  Like  It,  Act  II,  Sc.  7. 

^  The  first  act  shovrs:  Goldsmith  here  liad  in  mind  Jaques' 
seven  ages  of  man,  As  You  Like  It  (Act  II,  Sc.  7),  as  is  also 
shown  in  the  above  note. 

^  connoisseurs:  Dandies  and  critics  of  the  arts.  Compare 
The  Connoiseur,  a  periodical  started  in  1754  by  Thornton  and 
Colman. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  103 

And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers'  hearts  ; 

And,  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  complete, 

E'en  common-councilmen  forget  to  eat. 

The  fourth  act  shows  her  wedded  to  the  Squire, 

And  Madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher  ; 

Pretends  to  taste,  at  Operas  cries  caro  ! 

And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson  ^  for  Che  Faro :  ^ 

Doats  upon  dancing,  and  in  all  her  pride, 

Swims  round  the  room,  the  Heinel  of  Cheapside  ; ' 

Ogles  and  leers,  with  artificial  skill, 

Till,  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill, 

She  sits  all  night  at  cai-ds,  and  ogles  at  spadille. 

Such,  through  our  lives,  th'  eventful  history! 

The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me : 

The  bar-maid  now  for  your  protection  prays, 

Turns  female  barrister,  and  pleads  for  Bayes.* 

•  Nancy  Da'wson  :  According  to  Dobson  this  is  a  song  named 
for  a  famous  horn-pipe  dancer  who  died  at  Hampstead,  1767. 

'  Che  Faro :  The  first  words  of  a  line  in  Gluck's  opera  of 
Orfeo,  1764. 

3  Heinel  of  Cheapside :  The  Flemish  danseuse  Mademoiselle 
Heinel,  or  Ingle,  first  came  to  London  in  December,  1771.  She 
immediately  made  a  sensation.  Walpole  often  mentions  her  in 
Lis  letters. 

*  Bayes  :  Here  refers  to  the  poet,  with  an  indirect  allusion 
to  a  character  in  Buckingham's  Rehearsal.  Sometimes  refers  to 
the  poet's  garland.  "  Nor  from  his  neighbor's  garden  crops  his 
Bays,"  Prologue  to  The  Brothers  (,1770). 


104  SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER 


EPILOGUE  ' 

TO  BE   SPOKEN   IN   THE   CHARACTER   OF  TONY  LUMPKIN. 

BY  J.  CRADOCK,  ESQ.'' 

Well,  now  all 's  ended,  and  my  comrades  gone^ 
Pray  what  becomes  of  mother's  nonly  son  f 
A  hopeful  blade !  —  in  town  I  '11  fix  my  station, 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation. 
As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her. 
Off,  in  a  crack,  I  '11  carry  big  Bet  Bouncer. 

Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear? 
I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a  year ; 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 
In  London  —  gad,  they  've  some  regard  to  spirit. 
I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets. 
And  big  Bet  Bouncer  bobs  to  all  she  meets ; 
Then  hoiks  ^  to  jigs  and  pastimes  every  night  — 
Not  to  the  plays  — they  say  it  ain't  polite : 
To  Sadler's  Wells,*  perhaps,  or  operas  go, 
And  once,  by  chance,  to  the  roratorio.^ 

1  Epilogue  :  This  came  too  late  to  be  spoken.  —  Goldsmith 

2  J.  Cradock:  Joseph  Cradock  (1742-1826),  a  wealthy  man 
of  letters  of  Leicestershire.  Author  of  Zoheide  (1771),  founded 
on  Voltaire's  Les  Scythes,  and  The  Czar  (1824). 

2  hoiks :  A  call  used  in  hunting. 

Sadler's  Wells  ;  The  new  Music  House  of  Sadler's  Well 
was  built  of  stone  m  1765  on  tlie  site  of  the  old  garden  wliicli 
aad  been  establislied  in  1684.  In  the  time  of  Goldsmith  the  hall 
was  in  very  good  repute. 

roratorio  :  Another  instance  of  reduplication  occti."  3  J21  the 
second  line  of  the  Epilogue,  "mother's  nonly  son."  Compare 
Kalph  Simnell's  "  uinniversity  "  in  Greene's  Friar  Bacon  and  Friar 
bungay- 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER  105 

Thus,  here  and  there,  forever  up  and  down, 
We  '11  set  the  fashions,  too,  to  half  the  town  ; 
And  then  at  auctions  —  money  ne'er  regard  — 
Buy  pictures,  like  the  great,  ten  pounds  a  yard : 
Zounds  !  we  shall  make  these  London  gentry  say, 
AVe  know  what 's  damned  genteel  ^  as  well  as  they! 

*  We  know  what 's  damned   genteel :  Another  sneer  al: 
popular  comedy. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIUTY 


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